Dragon Age: Pawn of the Wolf
by interesting2125
Summary: Here be fragments of the tale of Nyx, sorceress, hero of Ferelden, pawn of destiny. The fragments discovered in Kal' Sharok's library dealt with her struggle against the Blight and her love of a bard. Completed!
1. Chapter 1: Another day in the Tower

**Another day in the Tower**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all those life-like, strikingly endearing characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I hardly claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

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_Another day in the Tower._  
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This was always Apprentice Nyx's first conscious thought when the bell rang. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, an impossibly high, decadent affair covered in sculptures of dragons and fornicating imps. Not unexpectedly, her second conscious thought was how much she hated Tevinter architecture and sharing her personal space with nineteen cackling students of magic and potential mass murderers. It was winter time, which meant that there may or may not be snow in the outside world; more importantly it meant that the absurdly vast rooms of the Circle of Mages' Tower were only a few degrees above freezing point. She hated cold, too. Nyx reached for her robes and slipped into the woolen garments without leaving the warmth of her blankets, trying her best to delay her inevitable entry into a cold, boring day.

As she finally emerged from her nest, she almost banged her head into a heavy white cuirass, complete with Sword of Mercy insignia, long draping velvet robes and the glaring, square-jawed, crew-cut block of wood that passed for a head among Templar recruits. Nyx's morning bitterness was replaced by a flash of pure hatred as she ducked out of the holy yokel's way. She muttered an insult. Judging by the new recruit's rather obvious interest in the female apprentices' dressing process, this guy would not be around in the Tower for too long. The Templars' resident Knight-Commander, Greagoir, may be a murderous fanatic like all of them, but he did not stand for obvious boorish behavior.

_Cold rooms, cackling teenaged human girls, holy farm boys_, Nyx thought as she quickly brushed her shoulder-length, raven black hair. _All the makings of a fine day at the thrice-damned High-security Facility for Born-sinners._

Sighing, she rose and let herself drift along the flow of her peers, down the shady stone halls and to the vast canteen with its rows of heavy oaken tables and its perpetual smell of oats and cabbage. Practically all of Ferelden's fledgling mages, those much reviled, sorely needed sub-category of humanity, were here slurping their morning porridge and discussing whatever news of the outside world the mighty hierarchy may allow to filter.

Nyx could never think of herself as_ one of them_.

She was not even _human_, to start with. Even in the great stone halls of the Tower, this egalitarian place of great knowledge and brainwashing, everything in Nyx stood out as _other_: her petite, thin frame, was hardly bigger than a human child's; her delicate, triangular face, was too alien to be considered pretty; and those huge, slanted green eyes with the silvery reflects, always seemed to make people antsy when she looked at them. Her facial tattoos – Senior Enchanter Irving claimed they were not Dalish- did not help.

Not to mention, the long pointy ears that shifted very slightly in response to the clangs and bangs of pots as she took her bowl of porridge and motioned, unsuccessfully, for an extra boiled egg. _Misers_. Behind Nyx, chubby human apprentice Samantha flashed her cleavage - freakish udders almost level with Nyx's head- and got the extra ration from the balding cook. Nyx was tensing to throw her porridge at Mr. Cook's face when big, soothing hands latched down onto her shoulders and gently goaded her to a nearby table, working at her knotted neck muscles as they went.

"I got you _two_ extra eggs" Jowan said as they sat side by side. "And a bit of honey, so maybe you can refrain from beating up my friend Mr. Cook?"

Nyx grinned and started peeling off an egg's shell. The sight of Jowan was the only thing that could make her smile a little these days; in fact, he was pretty much the only person in this small, stone-enclosed world that she could _tolerate_ these days. And ever since First Enchanter Irving, the official head of the Tower of Magi (the real power being the Templars), had forbidden the Elf access the Higher Library, effectively signaling her fall from grace, Jowan was really the only person who bothered talking to her.

Jowan smiled back at her, pleased to see his little gifts were making his friend's day. Jowan was Nyx's polar opposite: a stout human lad with a handsome, cheeky countenance and bright blue eyes which always seemed to smile, he was well-liked by the staff and students alike. For most, a conversation with Nyx felt like a cold shower; but Jowan could talk his way into people's hearts effortlessly. Being a smart boy, Jowan used this easily-earned trust to improve his and his many friends' lives; at age eighteen, he was effectively running his own small-time smuggling ring, procuring the cooks and helping staff with minor charms and scrolls in exchange for food and baubles from the outside world. Even the mighty Templars were usually happy to turn a blind eye to his rather harmless activities.

They say that opposites attract; while Jowan and Nyx had never shared anything physical – to the best of Jowan's knowledge, sexual attraction was as foreign to the elf as Orlesian fashion- the connection between them ran deep. They were both serious practitioners of magic, gifted far beyond their peers' understanding. Both were deeply unsatisfied with the constraints of the Tower life and their teachers' even more constricted minds. Without ever speaking the words, they had formed a tacit covenant that they would help each other survive this place and, some day, maybe even break free.

A memory crossed Jowan's mind and he laughed quitely as Nyx dipped a tiny finger into the small crock of honey he has obtained from a nearby farmer who sometimes delivers vegetables to the kitchens. The catlike eyes zeroed in on him in a silent question.

"Reminds me of the honey cake." Jowan smiled as he spoke. "You remember that?"

"Hum-hum. I just know I beat up some kid for you, and then you kind of stuck to me. You know how I forget things". There was a trace of regret in the elf's voice.

Before she met Jowan, Nyx had been living at the tower for over six months, a sullen child who hardly ever spoke. She was never openly rebellious, always followed instructions, and generally did not cause any trouble at all. The other children hated her, but always stopped short of laying their hands on her. There was a certain cold aura about the alienage orphan that made their skin crawl.

The Templars felt it, too. There was open talk of a swift, merciful strike being preferable to the long wait for a retarded mageling to be possessed by a demon. The senior enchanters, a graying Irving foremost among them, had to petition old First Enchanter Desmond to personally intervene to save the life of a child whose only sin was to be too quiet. Irving himself took an interest in Nyx after he saw the child pick up a discarded book from a senior student's desks, and hide under a table to read, her lips silently forming the words. This was no retarded child, who came from an alienage and could read old Tevinter in the text. Still, all of Irving's attempts at communication were met with a cold, unblinking stare, dutiful obedience, and blatant mistrust. Then Jowan came along.

It had been a lovely spring day in the kids' playroom– meaning the temperature in the stone halls was not neither cold nor hot, and some ragged rays of sunlight had found their way to the apprentices' pale skin through the iron bars in the high, thin windows. Nyx was huddled under just such a sunray, sitting cross-legged on the floor, avidly deciphering a book Irving had "forgotten" at her attention the day before. The book dealt about the Fade's aberrant geometry, and the tiny wheels in the elf's mind were spinning at the speed of light as she visualized fragrant angles and colorful shapes. She was vaguely aware of a commotion as some of the human fledglings ran in, chasing one of the newest arrivals. They liked to scare the newcomers when adults were not watching, which was very seldom. From time to time they would take advantage of a ward's bathroom break to rob their own kinfolk of whatever food they may have carried from the outside. They always left her alone. The tiny pink tips of her ears hardly moved at the sounds of the escalating scuffle.

Something bright and sticky landed in her lap, smearing her book with glistening yellow. It was a small, round cake, dripping with honey. The droplets on the ruined pages shone bright gold. Nyx's surroundings suddenly faded as memories, long lost and devoured, stirred and struggled against powerful seals. The Tower melted away and Nyx stood outside under the forgotten bright blue sky, cradling a baby with dark hair and silvery green eyes like her own, his radiant, laughing face smeared in honey. She looked at her little brother and felt so good she almost choked.

A pink hand with stubby fingers reached out from inside the sky and snatched the baby away, crumpling him into a small, yellow form dripping with honey. The sky became a grey ceiling as the human fledgling grinned and devoured the little cadaver.

After the Templar separated Nyx from her screaming victim, after she was flogged and berated for very nearly gouging out the kid's eyes, and after she had forgotten everything about the vision, Jowan sought her out to share the remnants of his aunt's honey cakes. Try as she might, she could not manage to get rid of the young farm boy's clumsy gratitude, and in the ensuing months and years an improbable friendship developed between the two of them. Jowan always found ways to get her out of trouble when her anger got the better of her, and taught her to smile and pretend to like other people; Nyx showed him how to see, smell and taste the threads of magic they pulled from the Fade. Talk about merciful strikes subsided.

Jowan whistled softly as Nyx licked the last drop of honey from her finger. "Your admirer is here", he said, pointing his chin to the mess door. Nyx frowned as she followed his gaze. The steel-clad figure of a Templar stood on the threshold, the man trying very hard to look nonchalant as he peered into the crowded refectory. Templar Cullen's brown eyes, plain but energetic features and short, curly blond hair were all too familiar to the elven apprentice.

"Maker's balls!" she murmured. "He's back? I thought he was supposed to be transferred to Denerim?".

Jowan chuckled. "I hear he literally begged old K.C. Mercer to stay here in the tower. Said he felt his mission here was a send of the Maker, watching over all of us evildoers in disguise. But…" he pursed his lips in a salacious expression. "But some of his roommates say he keeps _moaning_ a certain name in his sleep, and changes his bed sheet more often than an honest Templar ought to." Jowan burst into laughter at Nyx's expression of utter disgust.

"That _is_ funny, Jowan. Funny and tasteful. I have half a mind to hex the little creep into stalking _you_. See how you laugh when you find a rose tastefully tucked in your unmentionables' drawer. Or how you like being watched while _you_'re in your bath."

Jowan stopped laughing and put his hand over hers.

"Seriously… don't. Put a hex on him, I mean. Don't get yourself killed or worse because of a pubescent Templar's little love games."

Nyx smiled coldly. "I appreciate your concern, Jowan, but I'm not an idiot. I won't break down so easily – not now, anyway. Not with my Harrowing tonight." She could feel that Cullen had found her now, his gaze heavy with the hope that she would acknowledge him. _I'll be dead before I do, Templar scum. When will you finally get it?_ Following an impulse, she reached for Jowan's hand and clumsily raised it to her lips, almost physically feeling Cullen's frustration rise in response to the gesture. Then the feeling was gone, the doorframe empty.

"You're impossible, you know that?" Jowan quipped. "This is not the way I like to be kissed".

"Then how does _she_ kiss you, human?" Nyx's smile widened as Jowan's face and neck turned a pretty crimson. So he _was_ engaged in some mating ritual after all.

"This… is none of your business, _elf_." The lad was trying his best to look angry, and was doing a bad job of it. "And besides, you wouldn't understand. You think human emotions are overrated and babies grow in cabbage patches."

"I know for a fact where babies come from. I have read books about animal reproduction, complete with _detailed_ illustrations. I just cannot understand the _whys_." Nyx punctuated that last word with a little grimace. "Plus the Tower is not a good breeding environment, so your efforts are kind of fruitless, no?"

Jowan threw his hands in the air. He knew well where this conversation was going: nowhere. Some years ago he had made a timid attempt at taking their relationship towards a more… reproduction-oriented direction, and the Elf had cleanly nipped his budding feelings with the same mix of mild disgust and scholarly curiosity.

"For conversation's sake, Nyx… Even though I know this is going nowhere… Have you never felt anything, for anyone? Affection, raging lust, something?"

The Elf paused to think for a good three seconds before she gave her usual answer, counting on her fingers as she enumerated the different categories of people that made up her world.

"Well, I hate Templars. And most senior enchanters". _Two fingers_. "Other enchanters and apprentices just annoy me. " _Three_. "And Irving… he is an asshole but useful." _Four_. "And there is you, of course. You understand magic, you are reliable, and we help each other, so you are my friend." _Five. That's it_. Jowan stood up and signaled his defeat.

"Fine, so you really are the Ice Virgin of legends. Good for you, really." He sighed. "We can discuss this crap later, right? I have to go and do some chores at the chapel."

"Say hello to the Maker for me". In the last two years, Nyx's contempt of the Chantry's religion had grown to staggering, and dangerous, proportions. Something to do with her short internship with the priests. Jowan nervously checked for unwanted attention, shook his head, and took his leave.

Nyx carefully exited the mess hall, checking the stone corridors for the blond locks of the resident stalker. She had spoken with assurance before Jowan, but deep down she was unsure of what would happen if Cullen turned violent – just how well she would control herself and the dangerous energies that coiled around her body when she got angry. In the Tower, self-control was synonymous with survival. As she sped along the long, circular halls, she became aware of the soft sound of footsteps hurrying behind her. Anger flashed through her as she turned to meet the little creep; she had decided that her best defense here and now was to create a ruckus and expose Cullen for the dirty peasant that he was. That she would make even more enemies amongst the holy warriors did not trouble her too much.

The man behind her was not Cullen, her brains registered just in time to cut short the scream she had been about to issue. He was very tall, towering over her so that she was looking straight at the breastplate of his strangely ornate cuirass –Templar he was not. Dark-skinned hands shot up at the ends of wiry, muscular arms, in a palm-out gesture that was meant to reassure, but was also a guard. Nyx cranked her neck to get a look at the newcomer's face. He appeared to be a middle-aged human male, maybe in his forties, the deep lines on his darkly handsome face standing in sharp contrast to the effortless energy that seemed to radiate from him. The man's hair, long and knotted in the back, was a raven blue with flecks of gray at the temples. The nose was sharp, almost hawkish, and reminded Nyx of the statues of Tevinter generals in the upper halls. The eyes were black and deep-set, and returned her gaze with an intensity that was almost unsettling. _I'm not staring this one down_.

The man spoke in a pleasant, polite voice, with no recognizable accent.

"I'm sorry, Milady, I didn't mean to scare you. Would you know the whereabouts of Senior Enchanter Irving? I have business with him and I was told he would attend to the younger crowds on this level."

"Sure. I mean: Yes, Milord. He should be in the kid's auditorium, third doorway on your right." She hesitated for a second, but could not resist: "Follow the snores".

The man's smile widened just a little. "Thank you for your help, Miss…?"

"Nyx, Milord." A questioning look in the dark eyes, and the elf shrugged. "Just Nyx. I don't remember my family name".

"I see. And a fitting name it is: the primordial Tevinter goddess of night, unrivaled in wisdom even among the younger Dragon Gods."

Nyx smiled, pleasantly surprised at the warrior's erudition. Then a thought struck her.

"Are you the Grey Warden everyone keeps talking about?"

"Indeed. I am Duncan, of Ferelden's Grey Wardens. And may I ask what they say?"

"That a Grey Warden is coming to the Tower, and that he is twelve-foot high with fiery eyes." Nyx said absently. Her next question managed to surprise the Warden.

"Do you really believe the Darkspawn were created by the sin of mages?"

Duncan smiled and shook his head. "Nobody knows for sure, young lady. We Grey Wardens are more concerned with their destruction than their creation. And now, if you will excuse me, Lady Nyx of the Tower, I must follow the snores." Duncan bowed slightly and strode down the hall.

Nyx watched the older man disappear through the auditorium door and vaguely wondered what sort of folks the Grey Wardens were. The man's kind words and confident bearings had impressed her far more deeply than, say, the sight of a twelve-foot high fire-breathing freak could have. Nyx shook the feeling and hurried to her morning duty, Enchanter Niall's closing Spirit School practice and an absolute waste of her time on her Big Day. By the time she entered the practice room, she was slightly out of breath and feeling thoroughly nasty. Her mood did not improve when the young master chastised her for being late and bid her step forward and explain the assembled apprentices the intricate mind patterns, hand wriggling and words of command needed to cast the Mana Drain spell.

Nyx swore under her breath as she walked to the master's side, and tried to remember something, anything, of the human's lengthy speeches and obscure diagrams. As usual when she was under pressure, her brains went blank and she made a poor job of it.

"Well"… she painfully blurted; "This is… You need to wave your hands and say the words of command, just like Master Niall said. Then you have to focus on the other mage… " The words came faster and effortlessly now, a flame burning in the Elf's eyes. "… and follow his connection to the Fade, the threads of white or whatever his colors are…"

Master Enchanter Niall raised his eyes to the ceiling; the elf girl was at it again. Gibberish about seeing and touching magic; soon she would start raving about the taste of spells. He raised his voice to stop the nonsense.

"Apprentice Nyx…"

Said apprentice was too far out in what amounted to an attempt at describing sunlight to the blind. She ranted on in a low, raspy voice, her green eyes staring at something above the master's head.

"… Then you just kind of reach into the Fade with your spirit hands, and you pull the threads and… there."

Niall blinked in disbelief as he felt a part of himself being gently drawn away. He valiantly fought the incoming wave of nausea and reached for the young elf's shoulder, gently shaking her from her trance. Nyx snapped back to reality and instantly took conscience of his ashen face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

Niall cut short her apologies with a little smile and motioned for her to move back to the apprentices' ranks.

"And this, students, was a demonstration of how you cast Mana Drain when you are practiced enough to forget the spell and still make it work. Now back to the words of command…"

Niall sought her out after his class – Thanks to Nyx, it was a short one as he was not feeling too well. Nyx braced herself for the upcoming lecture about the importance of proper form in spell-casting, what with all the bad, bad demons waiting to prey on the bold and the creative. As it turned out, Niall congratulated her for her mastery of the Spirit school and informed her that she would be welcome to partake in some research work he was doing under Senior Uldred. Niall concluded the interview with warm wishes of success in her Harrowing. Nyx kept nodding and did her best to look happy at the prospect of many more years doing research in the Tower.

Nyx spent the rest of the day making preparations for her Harrowing, which in her case meant trying to shut off her senses as she sat cross-legged on her bed, her mind-eyes following the faint swirls in the Veil that marked the movements of mages. From time to time she reached out to one of the lesser swirls and delicately prodded their connection to the Veil, wondering at the colors and textures of humans and elves. The little cyclones of seniors she left alone.

She felt the approach of the Templar long before he crossed the door. The steel-shelled bastards' flesh was laced with Lyrium, that strange singing metal which was said to form through fissures of the Veil. While mages were moving swirls of Fade energy, Templars registered as dull blotches in Nyx's mindscape, weakening and spoiling everything that came near them. Sometimes during her mind-escapes, she had felt the blotches close in on an isolated, trembling swirl of energy, and smother it into nothingness. The sensation was beyond sickening.

Nyx opened her eyes as the living stain spoke her name, and rose to follow him through the stone halls and up interminable flights of stairs, into the elegant, arching dome of the Harrowing chamber. Nyx counted six Templars standing vigilant around the walls. The light from huge stained-glass windows, translucent but not transparent, painted their armors a reddish tinge. To her surprise, Knight-Commander Greagoir, the resident head of the Templars' garrison, had come up from his quarters to command today's butcher squad.

_I won't give you the pleasure of killing me, old man._

First Enchanter Irving stepped forward to greet her, his countenance both dignified and paternal. Nyx made a conscious effort to show him the respect he had come to earn and lose from her. For ten years the stout, grey-bearded man had been her mentor and one of only two persons the Elf child with no memories had trusted, and even somewhat liked. The old man fed his protégé's voracious appetite for knowledge and encouraged her to develop her instinctive, wild talent. He also made quite a name for himself in scholarly circles with his comparative analysis of human and elven sensory perception of magic, based essentially on Nyx's experience.

He betrayed her in the end.

When one of the librarians ratted Nyx out to the Templars about her research into Elven pre-Dalish lore and magic, adding to the already floating rumors of unorthodox spell-casting and outright witchcraft, Irving caved in and let the Templars subject his star student to an Enlightenment retreat. For weeks she was held in a white-washed cell, fed only liquids and forced to spend her days reading aloud the thrice-damned Chant. When she got out of there, thin as paper, her head singing with holy verses, she found that Irving had revoked her access to the Senior's library and effectively stomped her back down the Tower food chain. It took her two years of hard work to regain enough credibility to be allowed to the Harrowing, and as of her research…

She smiled, sweet murder glinting in her eyes as Irving ranted on about the dangers of the Fade and his unwavering confidence in her abilities. She wondered if another book was in the works. Then she moved to the small pedestal in the center of the room with the bowl of liquid Lyrium on top.

Her Harrowing, as it turned out, was a cakewalk.

Nyx met fiery demons and snuffed them like candles. There had to be a use for these guys; maybe stuff them in a bottle and use them to light firewood?

Nyx met a spirit who wanted to teach her important lessons about life by sticking his sword into her gut; she knocked some sense into him.

Nyx met what had to be the thickest trickster in the Fade, who pretended to be a mouse, then a bear, then a man, and finally asked if he could maybe possess her a little, pretty please, with sugar on it? To her lasting regret, this one proved smart enough to leave before she hexed the living light out of it.

Nyx emerged into reality with a headache and the firm conviction that any mage weak enough to fall for this really, really deserved to be weeded out. Jowan needed to hear about that. She felt him as she woke, the swirl that was him glowing blue and familiar at her side. Jowan stood next to her bed and wrung his hands. The expression on his face was one of distress as he begged for help.

_They wanted to make him Tranquil._

The dull, dirty _stains_ that were the Templars wanted to smother Jowan's simple, warm light from the face of the Veil. Nyx's anger rose like a tide of red. They would turn her only friend into a caricature of a man, a utilitarian drone, devoid of emotion, that would simply go on to serve his masters for the rest of its wretched life. Nyx struggled to regain control of her anger before the ripples she caused in the Veil caught someone's attention. Jowan was saying something about blood magic, a lover, an escape plan…

"Did you say something about blood magic?" Nyx's voice rang too eager in her own ears.

"I swear, Nyx, I am not a blood mage…" Jowan sounded sincere.

"Oh. I see." Nyx tried not to sound too disappointed. Blood magic was a dark power forbidden by the Chantry, under penalty of death. Blood magic was the ultimate bogeyman of Circle mages. She wanted to learn Blood magic _badly_. She sighed.

"Ok, let's hear this escape plan." Jowan resumed talking, his plan less impractical than expected. All the while Nyx was drawing plans of her own. She knew that the Templars held a phylactery, a vial of her blood, with which they could track her down if she escaped. Unlike still-apprenticed Jowan, there was no chance of her getting hold of that vial, since it would be stored in the Templars' Fereldan headquarters in the royal city of Denerim. This left her with the delicate choice of abandoning Jowan to his fate, or risking everything in a frantic escape to find the Wild Elves, the Dalish. Whether or not the roaming elven clans would accept a Circle apostate amongst their ranks was unknown.

The choice was easy, the temptation of freedom too great to be ignored.

They set out so retrieve Jowan's phylactery from the Tower's basement. Once they destroyed it, Jowan's sweetheart, a human Chantry novice whose wide hips would probably make reproduction a breeze, would provide them with Chantry robes and cloaks, which may or may not allow them to fool the sentinels at the gates. After ferrying across Calenhad lake they would part ways. The lovers would try and disappear in human farmland. Nyx would have to stick to the wilds, her blood attracting Templars like hounds on a fox's trail. She had maybe a chance in a hundred to survive the hunt and find shelter with her estranged kin. She was happy to take it.

They say the Tower's very stone has eyes and ears, and that the stone will report any devious whisper to the ever-vigilant Templars. Nyx was not really surprised to find Irving, Greagoir and a hall full of holy warriors when her small group emerged from the underground vaults where Jowan's phylactery lay shattered. Greagoir looked like a cat before a jug of cream. Irving wore a rather convincing look of hurt on his weathered face.

Exhilaration filled Nyx's small frame as she gathered up unholy energies and prepared herself to die. She would not be made Tranquil and she would never again submit, period. It was time to test the Templar's infamous resilience to magic; time to burn some of those blotches off the Veil…

Suddenly Jowan drew a dagger across his own hand and all hell broke loose. Nyx felt a surge of power unlike anything she had felt before – certainly not what she had come to expect from him. Templars were flung across the walls and she fell to her knees, spillover energy form the spell making her legs buckle, her vision blur and her stomach heave.

_Blood. Sodding. Magic. Thought we shared secrets? _ She thought as she fought the urge to vomit, failed, and spilled the contents of her stomach on the hall's polished stone slabs.

When she stopped retching, after a considerable while, she found that Jowan was gone and Irving, Greagoir and most of Templars had gotten to their feet – stinking puddles all over the place told of their own reaction to Jowan's little distraction- and formed a perfect circle around her person. _So much for my escape plans_, she thought. She wondered how many of them she could take down by herself in her nauseated state. _Probably not too many_. Nyx tried her best to stand tall and defiant amidst the towering humans.

It was then that Duncan stepped into the circle of judgment, dark eyes glowing in his weathered face as he demanded his rightful due. The Grey Wardens required the Tower's help, and Duncan had found a recruit who would not fear to break the rules when the right things were at stakes. By the right of conscription, Enchantress Nyx of the Tower was now the Grey Wardens' charge, due to undergo the Joining and fight along her peers. Greagoir snarled and warned of Thedas' impending doom at the hands of maleficars, and submitted. Irving seemed oddly pleased. Another book in perspective, perhaps.

Nyx packed her things without a word and without regret. There was nothing left for her in this place. She hesitated only a second before she stepped through the great bronze gates of the Tower. Finally outside, blinking like an owl in the sunlight, and the sight took her breath away. It was not the lake, nor the mountains on the horizon, the great white clouds roiling in the blue sky far above the Tower, the grey forests nor the wind on her face. It was the sheer _scale_ of the world, that maddening realization that she was facing infinity, that it had been here all the time and she never _knew_…

Duncan's hand on her shoulder, his touch firm and soothing.

"Are you all right?"

Nyx looked up at him, feeling her own face stretch with a smile so big she thought her mouth must reach to her pointed ears.

"You have no idea."


	2. Chapter 2: Ambush in the Wilds

**Ambush in the wilds**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all those life-like, strikingly endearing characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I hardly claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

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Standing tall in the clearing where they have made camp, Alistair watches Nyx sleep. It is a clear, cold night, an impossibly big full moon shedding its cold light on the dead trees and the shivering adventurers. Nyx sleeps well apart from the others, Alistair has noticed. Their companions are happy to give her a wide berth, and not just out of deference to her sex. Daveth, the quick-witted scout with a colorful past, is openly weary of all things arcane; and deny it as he would, the valiant knight Jory would rather not be caught within arms' length of an elf, let alone a spell-casting one.

They cannot not risk making a fire in the desolate marshland, so close to the bulk of the Darkspawn horde. Alistair's small group of Warden recruits had to content themselves with a cold supper and a patch of barely dry ground. After nibbling on her rations of smoked beef, Nyx has rolled herself into a small, compact ball, striving to find warmth in her damp blankets. In the silver light Alistair can see her perfectly: soggy, jet-black hair cascading over the backpack she is using for a pillow; her pale face a mask of frozen moonlight, striated with the strange arabesques of elven tattoos. The elf snores lightly, the tip of her pink tongue slightly pointing out of her lips. Little bubbles form at the corners of her mouth. She looks harmless and a little silly. Were it not for the ears and the unmistakable …otherness of her delicate if somewhat plain features, she could be a scrawny, malnourished human child. Or, Alistair thinks with bemusement, a scrawny, wet kitten. Hard to believe this is a powerful mage, one of the Circle's most promising graduates, Duncan had said. He was right about that, of course, but deep down Alistair wonders about the wisdom of this particular choice. He was trained as a Templar, a protector of the true Faithful against the evils of magic; and even though he has happily turned away from this path, he has learned just enough to be deeply wary and distrustful of spell-casters.

On the other side of the fire, a sleeping Jory lets out a contented fart. In the silvery light Alistair sees- he thought he saw- her alien, long ears twitch and shift a little at the less-than-discrete sound. The unexpected, inhuman reaction (_can elves do_ _that_?) makes him feel uneasy, and once again the image of a cat comes to his mind. Not the purring, glorious velvet ball to be found on Lady Isolde's lap, certainly; more like the ones you 'd find scrounging for food in the waste piles of the castle, should you be inclined to look into such places: sly, fierce little beings, all dirty fur, claws, and freedom.

Many years ago, a chubby-cheeked Alistair had watched one of the little tabby buggers take down an adder almost twice its length. The future warrior had been awed by the display of savage skill that was the first few seconds of the fight. Then the fight turned ugly. The furry assassin then kept toying with its prey, butchered it alive. Gallant young Alistair shoed the torturer away. As a reward, the dying snake struck the leather of his boot, its weakened bite just grazing the flesh. Alistair remembers vividly the disdain in the little cat's green eyes as he spun and ran off to the castle's healer, his innards roiling with fear.

There is a flicker of green under Nyx' eyelids, and Alistair feels a shiver run down his spine. For a second he thinks she's aware of his attention, and hurriedly turns his gaze to the embers. But no, she's still purring – _snoring_, _enough with the cat nonsense already_. The little Elven lady is going to be a Grey Warden, after all, supposing she can survive the Joining. And a pretty effective one, at that, looking at the way she's been dealing with the Darkspawn earlier today.

The way she's been dealing with them… Alistair, Jory and Daveth _fought_.

But Nyx… Could what she did to the creatures really be called fighting? Alistair knows about fighting: a crazy, heated affair. The fight-or-flight response kicks in, adrenaline floods your system, you exchange blows and curses, and before you know it, it is over. You are victorious or lying in a pool of blood, or both. It is a glorious, messy affair.

What the mage did… that was not fighting.

They spotted the darkspawn at the end of their first day in the Wilds. Alistair had grown steadily more aware of the malevolent presence as they progressed through soggy terrain; but it was Daveth who chanced upon their encampment while scouting for a suitable site to spend the night. Once past his initial shock at the sight and sounds of the creatures, Daveth silently crept back to the others, put on his bravest face, and reported his find of a suitable campsite, complete with bloodletting volunteers. At least six creatures, he reckoned, more than enough to fill the three small vials of blood the Grey Warden leaders requested as part of the little group's initiation.

Upon hearing the news, Alistair cracked a joke, Jory started sweating, and Nyx looked like she was about to slap the lot of them. Alistair then exposed his plan - if you could call that a plan. He and Jory would charge straight into the clearing where the creatures were apparently feasting and bashing each other around; barreling down from higher ground was pretty much the pinnacle of the young Warden's tactics. Daveth was to fire potshots from the side and take out any archers before he'd join the fray. Since Alistair had no experience working alongside a mage, he just informed Nyx to "_Errr, wait until we charge in, and then give us some support"_. She gave him a half-puzzled, half-disappointed look, then shook her head and murmured "_As you wish_" in her raspy voice, a sound that seemed almost too low to issue from such tiny lungs. He felt a little sorry.

Forward they moved, weapons at the ready, slow and silent between the grey, decaying trees, the sound of their footsteps muffled by damp leaves and rich, almost glowing moss. Alistair was careful to stay under the darkspawn's wind; older Wardens told tales of the creatures' preternatural sense of smell. They stopped when they neared a small dell, the lower ground forming a natural clearing in the woods, and Alistair took his time to study the enemy's positions.

The darkspawn camp was indeed small, no more than four crude tents, made of some pale-colored hide; in the middle of the clearing a small fire flickered, damp wood giving out more smoke than flame. Gnawed bones lied scattered all over the place, pink and white in the yellowish marsh grass. The grunting, stocky forms of genlocks huddled around the fire, obviously none too pleased with the light evening breeze. Alistair wondered at how cold and empty the surface must feel to one who spent his whole life in the musty dark of the underground. He quickly suppressed the idle thought, his lips silently forming the first stanzas of a Templar's prayer. _Not onto us, Maker, not onto us, but onto your name, grant glory_. The words, ingrained in him through years of training, washed away all rational thought. Clear, righteous wrath filled his being. He signaled to Ser Jory and crashed forward.

A chorus of bestial grunts greeted their appearance, the creatures reacting with impossible speed, reaching for weapons or drawing bows before his third stride into the clearing. Arrows whistled past his head. Only a few strides left. Alistair lifted his shield in anticipation of the shock of weapons. He was invincible. Then something impossibly strong yanked his left leg from under him and slammed him into the ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs. The world took on a grayish tinge as he struggled to stay conscious, lifted his face from the spongy soil, tasting dirt and blood in his mouth as he did. Up on one knee now, something held his calf in an iron grip, Jory was shouting something, and a gurgling beast with the eyes of a madman leapt forward, swinging something sharp at his head. But a Templar's muscles do not require a working head to do their job; Alistair's shield went up in a blink and deflected the attack, his blade reaching around in an impeccable arc, missing the genlock's leg by a hair's length. The creature jumped back, hissed, and then chuckled when it realized that the warrior was tethered to the ground. The genlock stepped aside and turned to signal indistinct figures by the campfire. Short, stocky forms with mad eyes and gaping maws and leather armor that creaked as they drew their bows.

_So many of them. Maker have mercy_.

Alistair closed his eyes.

The blast lifted him from the ground with enough force to send him flying through the woods. The trap that had buried its teeth in his armored leg kept him firmly anchored, though, and so he was slammed into the ground instead, _onto his back_. Alistair confusedly wondered if the Maker was playing a practical joke on him. After a few painful breaths he opened his eyes and stared at the grey sky. Wisps of smoke were drifting across the air, carrying the appetizing smell of grilled meat, mixed with the bittersweet stench that was _their_ hallmark. Alistair stirred and a small form leaned over him, huge green eyes peering warily from under a tangled mass of black hair. The apparition talked, and Alistair struggled to understand her words over the buzz in his ears.

"I said, are you all right?"

"Been better. Maker's been playing whack-a-mole with me as the hammer. The others?"

"They're fine. We're lucky to be alive. Daveth's reconnaissance was crap".

Alistair knew he should have tried to at least sit up, but he felt rather comfortable lying on the grass. The sun had escaped the swamp's pale mists for a few last moments and he was grateful for the warmth on his face. It was good to be alive. He smiled. "And it seems my tactics were no better, yes? What happened?"

The little elf girl crouched besides him, carefully pulling her brown robes about her. A thin smile played on her lips as she recounted the events. The campsite was a trap, probably laid out to lure Chasind hunters or small Fereldan patrols. The darkspawn had been well prepared and more numerous than expected, with some archers sitting hidden in a shallow trench close to the fire. They had also laid out a number of bear traps, artfully hidden under decaying grass. Alistair had fallen to such a trap, and Jory and Daveth had been forced to promptly back off under a hail of arrows. Nyx paused, a strange mixture of expressions on her alien features.

"And then, you rescued us all with magic?" Alistair quipped.

"No. Then I killed them all." The elf's expression grew distant, dreamlike; her eyes staring at things beyond Alistair's head. Her voice quivered in excitement. "I saw their fire, and I called… more fire… They never let us do this in the Tower, but I knew… I held it in my mind's hands for a second. It was like holding a little star. Beautiful." The catlike eyes focused again, meeting the Warden's worried brown gaze. Her voice went back to its usual, matter-of-fact rasp. "I almost lost control, though. I was afraid you were too close to the blast. Duncan would be disappointed if I killed his titular Warden."

Alistair couldn't help smiling at her display of concern. "I'm glad you didn't. In fact I'm pretty sure you saved my life, too, so I'd say Duncan would be pleased." He slowly sat up, noticing that he was covered from head to toe with a filthy layer of ash, blood, and sticky bits he didn't want to look at too closely. Looking around, he saw that the grass in the clearing had been singed in a rough circle, surrounding a smoking hole in the ground that was almost nine feet wide. Charred, meaty things were smoldering on the ground. _She almost lost control_, he thought.

Nyx rose up from his side, awkwardly straightening her robes like a child after evening blessings. She appeared to be the only thing free of ash and gore in the vicinity.

"Will you be all right if I leave you for a while?" she asked, pointing at his left leg.

"I think I'll be fine. Thing's hardly pierced the armor." Alistair looked up at the elven mage. "Why, you got some other genlocks to incinerate?"

The enchantress shook her head, a little smile on her face. "Better. I've crippled one, and Daveth said we ought to bleed it. I'll be back in a few moments".

"You…he… what?" Alistair blurted in shock, but the mage had already spun around and trotted away, humming as she went.

Alistair shivers and looks up at the night sky. There is a rustle of robes, and when he looks down the elf is standing in front of him, murder in her eyes. Her irises reflect the moonlight with a silvery glint; her pupils are pits of black.

"Did Greagoir ask you to keep an eye on me?" Nyx's voice is a low, angry growl. "Or do you just take pleasure in staring, _Templar_?"

"What? Who's Greagoir?" Alistair blurts, throwing his hands up in denial. He hopes for Maker's sake that the others are still sleeping. Right now all he wants is to creep under a rock. Cozy, cozy rocks.

"I… no! I wasn't… well I was, but I was just… I was thinking of how you saved me, and you know, how you did it all so easily and, how I didn't properly thank you…"

Nyx's expression hardly softens, but she inhales deeply, allows her muscles to relax, and when she speaks her voice comes clear and cold.

"I have no use for your gratitude. Duncan _ordered _me to do this with you." The Elf steps closer, cranking her neck to look straight into Alistair's eyes. "You keep your eyes to yourself or I will _burn_ them shut".

For all his good faith, Alistair feels a pang of anger.

"I am not a Templar, Nyx. I do not answer to anybody save the Grey Wardens. I honestly didn't mean anything by it." Then a realization:

"It's the Tower, isn't it?" He shakes his head. "I didn't realize it was that bad."

"Fuck you". Nyx shakes her head, anger turning to bitterness. This discussion is pointless. "Fuck your sympathy". The elf turns her back and walks away into the lonely woods with their scent of decaying leaves, mushrooms and freedom.

"Well". Alistair whispers after Nyx has disappeared between the trees. "We got ourselves a lively one."


	3. Chapter 3: Wolf born

**Dragon Age: Wolf- Born.**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all those life-like, strikingly endearing characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I hardly claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!**  
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Sitting broken and vanquished on Marjolaine's bedroom's wood floor, the enchantress Nyx struggles to remember the events of the day.

After Orlesian master bard and spy Marjolaine sent assassins after Leliana and her fellow travelers, Nyx had decided to make the long overdue trip to Denerim an emergency. It was enough to be a target for various factions' assassins and the bestial emissaries of the Blight without having to worry about some Orlesian spy's henchmen. Such was the reason her conscious mind had fabricated for her; as was often the case, Nyx was nearly blind to her other, deeper motives. Thy checked in at the Horseshoe, a seedy hostel near the Pearl, Denerim's longest-standing bordello. The neighborhood was rowdy enough for the city guards to keep a low profile, but not dangerous enough that the Warden's party would have to leave a trail of blood when shopping for supplies. Nyx left most of her companions at the Horseshoe under the great hound Runt's vigilant protection, and brought along only Leliana, Oghren (one _had_ to keep this one away from bars and brawls), and Alistair, because it would do no good to lose the royal heir to some spy's poison or dagger.

Killing an Orlesian rogue should have been an easy task for their battle-hardened group. Yet from the time she set her eyes on Marjolaine's home, an unremarkable one-storied building with a thatched roof close to Denerim's market place, everything started to feel wrong. First the guards at the doorway. Big, strong and scary thugs. Nyx and her companions dispatched them in a blink. _Too easy_.

Then there was the confident, greedy, animal look on Marjolaine's face. The purring voice. The apparent lack of concern upon seeing her former love and pet, Leliana, walk into her place accompanied by some of Ferelden's brightest.

Nyx was very familiar with the feeling behind Marjolaine's greedy expression. She knew how it felt to be a cat watching a wounded bird. How it felt to be a predator, to toy with darkspawn, bandits and anything stupid enough to stand in her path. It was perhaps the single most defining feeling in her life, this _hunter's fever_, and she had enjoyed it countless times.

Only this time, she found herself under the cat's paw.

She remembers how smoothly the trap worked. Wooden doors suddenly opened to let out heavily armored thugs. Ripples in the Fade, simultaneously surging from both sides, informed her mind's eye of the presence of not one, but two mages (_two mages! how rich was the bitch_?). Her body reacted to them before her conscious mind did, time slowing down to a crawl, the familiar, almost lazy surge of unholy energy, coursing through her veins, finding the first mage's spirit (_twenty-two years old, escaped from Orlais' circle, loved red wine, madly in love with the pouty bitch_). The surge of raw power snuffed his mind like a candle in the wind. _Sodding amateur_. Nyx was back in her own body before the mageling's dead meat touched the floor. As expected, the ripples from the attack had shattered the other spellweaver's mediocre concentration. _Probably caused him to wet himself, too_.

Nyx was turning her attentions to him, magelust boiling inside, when everything became very, very confusing. The Orlesian bitch leaned back, her jaws opened at a ridiculous angle, and she let out an impossible screech that shocked the heck out of everyone in the crowded, bloodied room. Alistair's mace suddenly disappeared from his fingers. While the poor bastard was looking at his empty hand in disbelief, his mind no doubt racing to find an appropriately inept joke, the missing implement reappeared with a thud in Marjolaine's manicured hand, crashing onto his helm from just outside his field of vision. Before Alistair's armor was even clanking on the floor, Marjolaine jumped on Leliana, pinned her arms to her sides, and slammed her onto the floor. Even as she kneeled over her now unconscious former lover, Marjolaine's lovely brown eyes found the shocked enchantress' gaze, a lascivious, contented smile playing over her thick, painted lips. Nyx returned her smile with a frown of her own, her mind racing to conjure up something that would stop the master spy – something _really_ nasty. The painted lips moved, forming sounds. What was the bitch saying?

"You forgot something, runt".

_ANDRASTE'S DRY FIG_! _The other mage…  
_

An invisible hand picked Nyx up from the floor, its touch gentle at first, like a warm, close-fitting garb. But she knew better. She knew the thrice-darned spell. The pressure increased slowly – _too slow, fucking amateur_- and the pain waltzed in. From the corner of her eye she saw the mage walk to her from the little bedroom where he had been waiting to ambush them. The man paused to study his work. He was a short, paunchy fellow of about fifty, with the rosy face and pale bristles of a hog. Pale eyes squinted through thick glasses. Piggy was positively glowing with pleasure at his catch; in all fairness, he _had_ ground to be pleased with himself. _I am being killed by a second-rate dabbler in magic_, Nyx thought with bitter rage, before returning to the task at hand: striving to breathe while a giant magical vise was squeezing her like a lemon. The older sorcerer watched her let out a pitiful squeak and turned to Marjolaine, who was quickly and efficiently cutting off the fallen Warden's companions' armor, then binding their hands with thin copper wire. The mage spoke, his voice an obsequious grunt.

"What of the dwarf, ma dame?"

For the first time Nyx noticed muffled crashing noises and exclamations coming from somewhere to her left. So Oghren was still alive. The dwarf may have funneled his foes into cramped quarters; maybe, maybe he could get in here and… Something crunchy gave out in Nyx's chest, bringing her attention right back to the business at hand: hurting, moaning, dying. She was drenched in sweat, hanging in the air like a fish on a line. Death was a slow, sweaty business. _Dear Maker Who giggles at our Suffering, please get to the point, pretty please with sugar on it…_ The room, a haze of red a few seconds ago, turned black. The voices, or were they the growls of dogs fighting over her carcass, faded at last into forgiving darkness.

"He's holed up in the cellar, non? Then he's no concern for now, Arlon. Let those Fereldan cul-terreux * earn their coin. How about the elf? It is not dead, yes?"

The mage smiled graciously, as far as boars baring their teeth can be gracious. "No, ma dame. I, uh, mitigated the spell's effect by throwing in a magic ward and some other, uh, tinkering. She will not work any magic for a while, methinks. Nor walk, for that matter. Quite a neat little spell, if I may say so myself. She was a powerful one to deal with, yes, as poor young François could certainly tell you, well, if he was in any state to speak that is… "

"Poor Francois, eh? Such a tender sacrificial lamb". Marjolaine's voice was sugar dipped in honey. "But I guess there's no point in letting his compensation go to waste, right?"

"Ah, well, yes, madame, very generous of you, indeed, very appropri-"…

"Oh do _shut up_", the bard snapped. "It is safe to release the elf now, perhaps? It looks as alive as my virginity".

The mage blushed a little at the sudden display of vulgarity, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and started to release the mystical bonds. Air rushed in Nyx' lungs, a great heaving gasp that threatened to shear her in twain.

"And do make sure you catch it before it goes and cracks its skull on my stone floor, right?" The concern in Marjolaine's voice was genuine. "It is worth more alive". Following his employers' instructions to the letter, Arlon carried Nyx' small, broken frame to the adjacent room and propped her up in a corner, then dumped Leliana on the bed". "Done", he finally grunted, looking down at his robes in disgust. There was stinking knife-ear blood all over the fine beige linen.

"Thank you, dear, that will be all. You mind stay outside the door, just in case the big bad dwarf comes out of the cellar, you know?"

The sorcerer grumbled something, polite or maybe not, and closed the door behind him. Alone at last, Marjolaine started preparations for her little party, humming as she went.

Now sitting in her corner like a discarded rag doll, Nyx has no idea where she is. She has been sleeping for a while, and her dreams have been quite disturbing. She opens her eyes – it is a conscious effort, the tiny muscles around the eyelids feel stiff and lazy- the world a blur at first, then slowly coming into focus. Her vision is coming back now, black specks still dancing in the corners of her eyes. She can move her eyes around, but her neck feels very stiff- for some reason her whole body feels stiff. She slowly takes in blurry impressions of her surroundings. Low ceiling, big wooden beams, clean wooden floor, colored rugs – tapestries?-hanging from bleached walls. Heavy, pink curtains on the only window. Big bed, pink shiny coverings, fluffy things that elves and mages have no name for. Everything is still blurred, but it feels… girly, if not strictly tasteful. Leliana would approve, the Warden thinks confusedly.

Talking about the redhead, she's sitting there on that big pink bed. There is an oil lamp hanging right above her head, and her hair shines red gold. She's wearing a white shirt, with sleeves embroidered in red. Her arms are lifted high above her head in an exaggerated gesture of appreciation. She's watching Nyx with very bright eyes, nodding at her with the widest, silliest grin. Nyx wants to tell her to stop being so silly, but her throat is very sore and betrays her, so she settles for a squeaky sound, which hopefully sounds friendly. Now to think of it, she's quite sore all over.

As if it had been patiently waiting for this signal, the pain rushes back to Nyx. There are whit-hot pinpricks all over her body. There is deep, throbbing pain in her ribcage… collarbone… forearm… hips… She looks down and she's sitting in a pool of her own blood. _I was dead, wasn't I? Not sleeping, dead. The thick-lipped bitch and her pet magician. They killed us all.  
_

The enchantress raises her head and now she _sees _it all. Leliana is naked from the waist up. Her hands are tied to the metal bed frame, thin metal wire biting into the flesh. Blood streaks down her arms and shoulders in hideous patterns, dark red on white skin. A strip of white silk has been tied around her mouth. There are tears in her bright blue eyes, sorrow, despair, a world of guilt. From Leliana's side, a splendid head of dark hair moves into the light. Marjolaine's features, as she crawls onto the bed, have all the smoothness and cold perfection of an Andraste statue. The smile she is flashing the enchantress, however, is that of a soldier forcing himself onto a child. Nyx feels a familiar rush of anger inside her, the dark flame so much stronger than all the pain in her broken flesh. _You're in for a surprise, bitch_. She sends her mind's arms clawing into the Fade.

Nothing happens. She tries again, and again. Her mind is not so much reaching as flailing about. Nothing. She drowns in panic, the great fire of her anger smothered. When panic subsides, and Nyx opens her eyes again, she is a being of ash. The Orlesian is spying intently, her grin wider. Nyx has seen more pleasant expressions on dead hurlocks. Marjolaine turns her attentions to Leiliana, whispering something. Small blessing, Nyx' ears have been damaged, whatever filth those thick lips are spewing forth is not coming through. But the master bard's body language would be obvious to a blind eunuch. Everything about Marjolaine screams rape, torture, and murder. Nyx retches, bile coming up to her lips. She doesn't have the strength to watch what will come next. She closes her eyes. Deep inside her something snickers, the mocking echo of a child's voice. _Sure. Close your eyes. Everybody does_.

Nyx snaps her eyes open. Marjolaine is still content with blabbering, it seems, though her quick breath tells of barely controlled urgency. The enchantress' green eyes meet Leliana's, those blue orbs of pure terror, and lock them down. She summons all her willpower, and her mind forms the words as clearly as any voice. _You do not die tonight, my friend. You must trust me._

Nyx feels Leliana relax; she feels her fear receding, warm feelings of trust and friendship - something more- flowing from her. Time ceases to exist as Nyx sends her consciousness into Leliana's mind, peers back into her own feline, inhuman eyes, the irises so dilated they seem orbs of jet. Her consciousness keeps moving back and forth, she is one and plural, subject and object, finite and infinite. She is a great serpent, devouring herself over and over. She is a splash of divine shit on the floor. Nyx knows that this is all an illusion, a dangerous shortcut to the Beyond. Nyx cares not for knowing, and starts to dive deeper through her mind's black waters. The pale visage of pain dutifully grimaces and is left behind. Further down, the Leviathan of her ambition grumbles as she grazes its formidable mass. Down she goes, down to the grubby bottom of her being, where dead forms wave gleefully, reach out with rotten fingers. She dismisses them all, just barely. She rips open the last barriers and steps into the Beyond.

Somewhere, in the maze of ever-shifting dreams and shattered land that is the Fade, there is a grey forest, its trees old and wizened and huddled so close that their lifeless limbs blot out the sky. Strange beings roam here, their absurd shapes barely glimpsed in the mist, but they know better than to approach one such as Nyx. Somewhere in the murmuring forest, something gnawed and hollow, odiously familiar, and still alive, moans and begs between the grey trees. She grits her teeth and hurries on toward the clearing.

There, in the center of all things, she finds the circle of black stones, the darkness broken by a single moonbeam. Nyx coils herself in the cold light, in the very place she swore she would never, ever return to, and waits. She feels the darkness cringe at His approach: a taint as virulent as the dark blood in her veins; a glory the likes of which mortals were never meant to witness. She withers under His attention. It is no gentle sensation, His unhurried foraging through her being in search of food. Shivering, Nyx waits for Him to find the only thing she has to offer up. She will give the memories of the red-haired girl by the campfire, and He will devour them. Nyx will return, a hollowed husk radiating power. The Blight will be opposed. Leliana will live. Nyx will care about neither.

The Presence scoffs at her sacrifice. Without words, He shows her how worthless her holocaust is, how little good is left in her spiritual carcass. Such a far cry from the child he devoured.

Nyx kneels prostrate under the cold moon. She has, it appears, used her last trick, and she has lost. Summoned by her despair, The Presence finally congeals into His true shape. His mass shames the mountains, muscles of steel flowing over iron bones. His fur shines black under the moonlight. His eyes are lakes of molten silver in a sleek head. His breath reeks of fire and the carrion of the battlefield. Fern' Harel, the Great Wolf-god of her people, stands before her. His mind touches hers and the visions begin.

The Great Devourer shows Nyx the threads of her life, spun of time and action. Her forgotten childhood flashes before her eyes, and then she sees her First Choice, the first great rift in her destiny. The path of submission, she is reminded, led to years of abuse and a sordid death. Nyx chose the other path, the dark one. She fed the god the memories of her dead family, her mother smiling in her blue apron, her little brother chirping and making a mess as they shared honey cakes. In return she received His gift of divine strength and indifference.

The Second Choice surprises her, because she never thought of it as such. She stands before the Grey Warden in the Tower, his eyes smiling in his dark, weathered face, and she accepts his offer. Battles, bloodlust and the promises of friendship flash before her.

Now Nyx stands at the third Choice. The first path is death. The Dread Wolf burns the images into her. Leliana dies in the cozy torture room, clinging to the last to the enchantress' promise of help. Oghren burns to death in the cellar, clinging to the last to a barrel of wine. Nyx and Alistair die at the hands of a weasel-eyed man in a moldy dungeon. The Blight rages through Ferelden and Loghain dies a hero's death at the head of his knights. Farmland rots and farmers die. Forests burn and elves die. Dwarven tunnels turn red as dwarves die. Armies mass in Orlais, Tevinter and other nations. They fight, and they die. Survivors hurry across the sea. The Qunari sink their ships and they die. The Blight swells from deep under the Qunari fortresses. The Qunari die.

The world dies. No dreamers cross into the Beyond anymore. The Wolf-god grows hungry.

The Great Wolf does not approve. There is something almost comical in his palpable dismay _at being deprived of his food_, but desperate as she is, Nyx knows better than to laugh in the presence of a god.

This is what will come to pass. Unless…

The other path is anything but certain. Fern' Harel will lend Nyx a spark of His spirit to assist in her fight. None of her crew of misfits shall die today. They may even live on to meet the tainted Worm, the Archdemon. What happens then is beyond Wolf's wisdom; there is an overwhelming chance that it will all end up the same, with Thedas a smoldering pile of filth and the Great Wolf gnawing on His own ribs in the dark.

Nyx raises her face to confront the burning silver. _Nothing is free._ _What is your price, Trickster?_

The Great Wolf's titanic maw opens wider, the Beast brimming with pleasure at her defiance. Without words, He speaks.

Fern' Harel wishes to walk the lands of the living. But the tired land is too fragile for His mass, the worn sky too low for His brow. A vessel is required to host His essence. Wolf has been preparing for a long time, weaving a rich, powerful vestment out of flesh and magic.

Nyx smiles bitterly. _You have been grooming me for this ever since I was a child, haven't you?_ There is a great gust of searing air, the stench of rotten flesh and burning iron is overpowering as He brings His maw closer to her. In the great lakes of silver that are His eyes, she sees a long succession of rutting bodies, dozens or hundreds of couples, reveling in loving or bestial embraces. Generation after generation, naked under the moonlight, Fern' Harel's shamans have done His bidding, His sacred fuck-ritual. She shakes her head as she understands the meaning of the vision.

_Not since I was a child. I was fucking bred for this.  
_

Nyx feels a tidal wave of anger wash over her, and she stands up to the god and threatens Him with tiny fists and screams insults that would make a Dwarven pimp blush. The Great Wolf watches her for a while, seemingly enjoying the show. Then he nonchalantly stretches his neck, dark fur rippling under the moon, He crushes her between teeth the size of Denerim's gate towers, and swallows her whole.

_Dead at last_. Nyx thinks as the pain and terror subside. _Now I can rest a little.  
_

Then there is a rush of light and sensations, and she is back in her own, broken body, staring into Leliana's terrified eyes.

Nyx's first conscious thought is a simple _Aww shit. I'm not dead_.

Then a bouquet of wavy dark hair enters her field of vision, framing a stunningly beautiful and much- hated face. Huge brown eyes take stock of her awareness. Marjolaine winks obscenely, rubs her thick lips over Leliana's cheek, says something to her ear. She draws a thin, fragile-looking dagger with a pearl-incrusted hilt, and gently presses he tip of the blade on the very same spot she kissed. It's a small cut, but Nyx can see the blood trickle in surprising amounts, an impossibly deep red on pale skin.

Nyx can not only see Leliana's blood; she can also _smell_ it, _feel_ it, something in her stirs in hunger, something is wrong - and everything is so right, so… Glorious! Her spirit reaches out avidly towards the blood, into it, and Marjolaine's eyes grow wide as the crimson rivulets on her victim's face and arms come alive, become menacing arabesques, writhing serpents, then evaporate into a fine, expanding red mist that threatens to fill the whole room. From the dying little elf's direction come crunching, snapping sounds; it takes all of Marjolaine's morgue and willpower to make her turn her neck and look. She sees the broken elf's body writhe and shift as unkind energies, more fit for destruction than healing, hurriedly reset broken bones and mend crushed organs. Marjolaine knows better than to give a mage the time to heal themselves. _Screw Loghain_, she thinks as she balances her blade, shifts her weight and aims for the throat. _He'll have to settle for Elf meat after all_.

At the very instant Marjolaine lets fly, that ungrateful whore Leliana, all tied up that she is, throws herself against her legs, and the dagger clatters against the wall, well clear of its target. Even as she rolls onto the floor and back to her feet, Marjolaine allows herself a half-second to imagine the pleasure she will have at skinning the redhead runt alive. She grasps the Elf's skinny little neck with a satisfied grunt and prepares to snap it like a twig.

There is something wrong with the mage's eyes, a red film that seems to float over the green irises, like putrid oil over a clear pond. The red filth twists and swirls into disturbingly familiar shapes that threaten to draw her in. Marjolaine's hair stand on ends as her whole body screams a warning. She pulls away from the Elf, from the strange eyes that are now green and clear as a river pond. The red shapes are swirling all over the Elf and all over the walls, and within seconds Marjolaine can feel them too, crawling under her skin, writhing along her veins like an army of serpents. She laughs. She sobs. Then she hears the Elf speak a command and she refuses, but the serpents pull her muscles and move her limbs like a thousand wriggling puppeteers.

Nyx does not look as Marjolaine opens the door, drags Arlon in without a word, slits his throat from ear to ear, and exits again in search of her remaining guards. She picks up a pair of silver pliers from a small gilded tray by the bed –looking at Marjolaine's sophisticated torture set makes her want to puke- and she carefully cuts Leliana free of her copper wire restraints. Nyx kneels by the bedside and examines her friend– Leliana has suffered no serious wound, but the drain on her life force has rendered her unconscious. The Bard is breathing slowly, her pale face very peaceful, as though she somewhat trusted her absurd Maker to watch over her. _Maybe he does, too_. Nyx lightly caresses her forehead, brushing aside a lock of red-blond hair.

Hurried footsteps echo though the house and a blood-soaked, manifestly inebriate Dwarf totters into the room. Deep under his flaming brows, blood-injected eyes take in the sight – the pink bed, the dead man with his split neck gaping like an obscene, toothless mouth, the Elven chick with robes so soaked in blood they've practically turned crimson, and the human chick's white breasts almost hanging out of the bed sheets… _Showtime_! Unfortunately, the Warden seems to read his thoughts and draws the bedcovers higher over Leliana's sleeping body. Oghren shakes his head in disappointment.

"Ya'all seem all right, hehe, sorry to interrupt…"

He shoots another glance at the bard's sleeping form, unfazed by the Warden's disapproving frown. _Looks like showtime's over_. "Say, ya'll never believe what happened down there in the cellar…"

Nyx wearily walks to a nearby closet and starts foraging through Marjolaine's clothing. Everything is huge, but she needs some replacement for her blood-soaked robes, and a cloak or something for Leliana. They cannot walk the streets of Denerim soaked in gore and carrying a half-naked human. She cannot remember ever feeling so tired.

The Dwarf is still blabbering. Making his last stand in a wine cellar has made him really talkative.

"… And then one of them guards tumbles down the stairs onto me, all dead and all, and by the time I've thrown his pox-ridden carcass off me that crazy human wench is standing there. And then, ya'll never believe this, the wench says…"

Nyx turns towards Oghren, her arms laden with heavy velvet dresses. Her head hurts. She needs to shut up the dwarf. Her voice snaps very cold in the death room.

"Let me guess. The bitch laid out her neck on a wine barrel and called you an impotent nug-licking cuckold".

Testament to the potency of Orlesian wine, Oghren seems mostly unfazed as he grumbles. "Nug-sucking. Said nug-sucking. Still a pretty good guess." He opens his mouth to propose his bard-clothing services, thinks better of it, and walks towards the door. "Guess I'll go wake up Prince Charming now. Don't feel like carrying him all the way to the inn."

With Oghren gone at last, Nyx quickly slips into a green velvet dress from the dead spy's closet. A look in the mirror informs her that she looks like a twelve-year-old playing princess in her mom's clothes. There is a copper water basin in a corner of the room; she has to hold the dress to her hips to avoid tripping on loose fabric as she moves there to wash the blood and dirt from her face. When she looks up, bright blue eyes are watching her in the gilded Orlesian mirror. Leliana is sitting on the pink bed – _I never want to see the color pink ever again_- bed sheets gathered around her chest. The Bards' face is very pale under her red gold hair, there are great blue rings around her eyes, dried blood from the cut forms a dark red accolade on her round cheek. Nyx has never seen anything so beautiful.

Leliana smiles at her, a frightened child's smile.

"Green suits you well, I think. It never suited _her_ well." The Bard's musical voice breaks a little. "Is she…"

Nyx hesitates for a second.

"Dead, yes". A pause. _How much detail is needed for such news_, the enchantress wonders.

"I… put a hex on her, so she would leave us alone. She went for Oghren and he killed her. I hear it was quick".

"Thank you." Leliana's expression is a strange mix of pain and relief, tears flowing freely. "Thank you for helping me."

"It's… nothing, really". There is a big painful notch in the enchantress' throat, and for the first time since she came back from the Beyond, she starts wondering what changes the Trickster has wrought in her _this_ time. "Can you walk? We should get going as soon as possible. I've laid out some clothing for you on the bed."

Nyx literally runs out of the room as Leliana clothes herself – The Bard's tears are painful to watch and this feels wrong._ Fern'Harel, you tick-ridden jackal, what have you done to me_?

The sight in the living room is hardly comforting. Oghren and Alistair are sitting on the grey stone floor before the hearth, a roaring fire at their backs. Oghren has been ministering to his companion in his own, inimitable style, by pumping him full of brandy. Alistair struggles to his feet to greet her. The right side of the Templar's face is one huge, purple bruise from the temple to the jaw. He squints at her with his one open eye, painfully smiles and blurts out a welcome speech he seems to have been preparing for a few minutes.

"There she is, our triumphant leader! Conqueror of the Orlesian Witch! Protector of the…"

"Say one more word, royal bastard, and I'll roast you alive." The familiar words come out easy. Or so they should; unfortunately, Alistair has thrown his arms around the much-smaller Elf and her protests sound "humph humph humph", muffled by layers of foul-smelling wool. When she dares breathe again, the big goofball is holding her at arm's length, her feet barely touching the floor. Alistair's face is unexpectedly earnest. "I just meant to say that I' m really happy to see you alive" he says in a surprisingly firm voice.

"And I am happy to see you, too." Nyx cannot believe that she just said this. She cannot believe that she meant it, too. "Now release me before I unman you". As Alistair lets go of her, a soft laughter drifts in for the bedroom. She turns to see Leliana standing in the doorframe, impossibly graceful in a deep blue velvet cape. For all her grief, the Orlesian seems to find the scene endearing. Nyx wants to laugh, too, but the lump in her throat is as big as a pumpkin and, for the first time since the Great Wolf devoured her memories, she breaks into tears. She gathers up her absurd, oversized skirts, walks to the main door and steps out into a scary, brave new world.

_* Cul-terreux: "muddy butt", bumpkin in Orlesian. _


	4. Chapter 4: Possession

**Possession**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all those life-like, strikingly endearing characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I hardly claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

Fern' Harel's touch was not gentle.

Nyx emerged from Marjolaine's home in a state of utter confusion. She hesitated on the threshold, dazzled by the gentle afternoon sunlight, head throbbing with the mother of all headaches, and then rushed into what she hoped was the direction of the hostel, her oversized green velvet dress trailing in the mix of mud and raw sewage that was a fixture of the streets of Denerim.

Her companions hurried to catch up with her. They were a sorry-looking lot: the drunken dwarf in dirty armor, bloodstains still visible in the joints; the formerly handsome knight whose bruised face seemed to have been caught in a door, and the pretty redhead in a blue dress, who looked as pale as old man Death himself.

The three misfits exchanged worried looks as their leader's course through the streets grew increasingly erratic. Nyx made abrupt turns to examine trivial objects, talking to herself all the while in a tone that jumped randomly from anger to laughter, from sadness to exhilaration. Nyx ran to a dusty barrel by the marketplace and chastised it for being ugly. She laughed at the stinking fish on a street stall; the hawker, a thin, sour-looking man in his mid-fifties, eyed her suspiciously and commented loudly on the drunken knife-ear in a stolen dress. Nyx cried at the sight of a puddle of horse piss. She generally made no sense at all, and finally had to be firmly encased between Oghren and Alistair's armored shoulders and literally dragged along, lest she ran into a moving carriage.

By the time they reached their hostel, Alistair was carrying the unconscious elf– she was hardly heavier than a human child. The companions' irruption into the inn's common room caused a little commotion among local patrons – they looked more than a little like a raiding party carrying back a kidnapped victim. Things settled a bit when a blond elf, clad in discrete brown leather and smooth as a snake oil peddler, offered the assistance a round to compensate for his associates' breach of the peace. After a few minutes spent watching the crowd, elven assassin and Grey Warden companion Zevran Ariainai felt reassured that no one was seriously considering calling the guards. Law enforcement was not highly popular in the neighborhood, especially under the new Arl of Denerim.

Zevran quietly made his way to the hostel's second floor lodgings, clean little rooms neatly aligned on either side of a wooden-planked hallway. He had personally chosen the place and briefed his companions on exit routes and contingency plans. Nyx respected his professional competence and, after a brief period during which she had appaeared ready to unleash magical hell at any sign of foul play, the sorceress now seemed to trust his judgment and abilities as much as anybody else's. Which, Zevran reflected as he silently walked past the first rows of doors, was probably not _that_ much: Nyx trusted her own strength first and foremost. She and Zevran had much in common.

Nyx's door was half-open; the great hound Runt sat before it, a barrier of fur and muscle that trespassers would break at their own risk. The dog looked nervous, and did not wag his tail when Zevran patted his head and opened the door. The room was small but sunny, its walls lined with warm-looking oak paneling, the bed linen and matching curtains bright saffron. The cozy space felt sorely cramped now. Alistair, the second Grey Warden on their group, watched befuddled as Wynne, their healer and the group's eldest, argued in a muffled voice with Morrigan, the witch of the wilds. Zevran tapped Alistair's shoulder.

"How is she?" he asked in a whisper.

"She has a bad fever, been unconscious for over an hour" The former Templar's murmur betrayed concern and a hint of panic. "Things went pretty bad with Leliana's former master. We took her down, but she has done something to Nyx, maybe poison. Nyx started talking gibberish on her way here, acted crazy, and then she just collapsed."

"Did you find any open wound on her?" The Antivan knew, and had used, at least half a dozen substances that could cause similar symptoms.

"None. But Wynne thinks she healed herself anyway."

"I am positive that there is no poison in her blood." The old healer's voice resounded with an anxiety that was in sharp contrast to her usually serene, some said almost royal countenance. She rose and turned away from the bed, deep lines of concern and sadness on her face.

"I think, I believe she is…"

Morrigan's voice cut through the old Circle mage's like a sharp, poisoned blade.

"That fool believes the Warden is possessed, an abomination to be purged by fire and brimstone." Zevran watched with a mixture of erotic thrall and repulsion as Morrigan pointed an accusing finger at Wynne's face. The witch reminded him of a snake coiling for the strike. Only she was more beautiful, and a thousand times deadlier.

"Tell them, old woman. Tell them about your grand plan." Morrigan continued, yellow eyes almost luminous in her pale face.

Wynne crossed her arms, very calm and defiant. Alistair and Zevran stared in disbelief as she spoke.

"I believe the Warden has fallen victim to a Fade spirit. Maybe she had to make a pact in order to save her life and that of our companions. I do not know what kind of entity may control her, but the signs are here: the sudden change in personality, the gibberish, the fever. The coma is even worse. We have to refer Nyx to the Chantry."

Zevran raked his brains for an appropriate expletive in the Fereldan tongue, but Alistair beat him to it.

"Great sodding Hell, woman, are you serious?" The former Templar's eyes were almost bulging out of his head. "Did you ever hear the Templars' saying: _smite first and the Maker will sort out his own_? They will have Nyx's head on a pike before she has a chance to wake up. And that's if they feel nice and accommodating."

"The idiot speaks the truth", Morrigan added helpfully. Alistair looked about to punch her in the mouth.

"And what will happen when she wakes up in here, a heavily populated area, and turns into an abomination?" Wynne's eyes were icy cold as she made her case.

"How many innocents will be slaughtered? Will you stop her then? Do any of you think they can stand against _that_?" Alistair averted his eyes, looking at a dark spot on the wooden floor where someone had spilled tea. Wynne felt his hesitation, carried on, her voice more gentle but no less urgent.

"Alistair, you are a Grey Warden. You are sworn to do whatever it takes to protect the people. To protect your people."

Alistair looked sad and confused as he finally looked up at the old enchantress. He slowly turned to face Morrigan. His lips were trembling a little.

"Look how quickly the Templar boy _crawls_ back to his masters!" Morrigan made no effort to hide her fury now. Sunlight from the window seemed to recede as she took a step forward. Her shadow filled the room. Zevran realized that her staff, a gnarled length of wood, blackened and wizened by her touch, was clasped firmly in her right hand. Things were going south quickly. _Things were getting interesting._

In a perfectly innocent movement, the elf rested his hands on the flaps of leather that hid his poisoned blades, and quietly started to circle around Morrigan while the others' eyes were fixed on her. He moved towards the bed, his face betraying nothing but grief and concern for the Grey Warden who lay there, rosy with fever. Zevran, smooth and unremarkable like a snake in the grass, was closing in on the old healer. Always take care of the spell-caster first.

He was almost within reach of his target when he perceived movement at the door. He had to keep his peripheral vision on his quarry, but his other senses never idled. Clicking paws on the wooden floor: the Mabari hound was escorting someone in. The newcomer stepped as lightly as a cat, but a faint hint of lily mixed with leather brought him an answer: Leliana. He smiled.

"You are walking in the midst of a rather interesting discussion, my dear. Although, considering your present health condition, I would advise you refrained from entering our little debate." Zevran was truly concerned, but not so much about the Orlesian bard's health. Her presence upset the delicate balance of power in the room. Should she pick a side now, things would definitely turn ugly. And Zevran entertained no illusion about the side she would pick. Before Leliana joined the Warden's group, she had been pursuing a new life as a darned Chantry _sister_.

The scent of lily and leather grew stronger and more sensual to Zevran's discerning nostrils as Leliana stepped past the glaring witch and warrior. She did not so much as look at them. Her red-gold mane entered Zevran's field of vision as she knelt by the Warden's bed. Leliana was even paler than usual. The little wound on her left cheek, left unattended, was the only trace of color in her face. With a dreamy expression, she reached for the sleeping sorceress' temple and gently pushed a black lock away. Then she took the Warden's small hand in hers and started praying quietly. The bickering had stopped with Leliana's entrance, and the silence in the room now felt religious, even to one as jaded as Zevran.

Runt whimpered softly.

"Leliana…" Wynne started, her voice a hoarse whisper in the silence. "Please. We must…"

"She did it to save me." No trace of emotion in Leliana's voice. She rose slowly and faced the old enchanter.

"Leliana, you must let her go. Nyx is…" Wynne's sentence ended in a cry of pain as the younger woman grabbed her throat and slammed her hard against the wall, once, twice, stars dancing in her head, and Leliana's long dagger suddenly materialized in her hand, very cold and hard against the pulsating artery in the old healer's neck. Wynne felt the bard's breath, cool and fragrant and oh so menacing, when she drew her face very close. There was madness in the blue eyes, madness mixed with an icy resolve that made her wish she were facing a rage demon. Incongruously, two words from an old ballad jumped to her mind: _Fallen angel_.

The angel with the eyes of steel spoke in a detached, matter-of-fact tone as she explained the situation. Zevran made a mental note: try and get in the bard's pants if possible, but never be on her bad side.

"Here are the rules: if you touch her, I will kill you. If you tell anybody about her, I will kill you. If you run to the Chantry or the Templars, I will catch you, and kill you." A pause, the steel eyes studying their prey. "Do not think I will shy from it. You don't know me." A cold smile now, as Leliana assessed the impact of her words on the old woman. "Promise me you won't make me do it."

Wynne struggled to regain her bearings. The others were watching her, waiting: the snarling witch, the quiet assassin. Alistair was intently looking at the point of his shoes, once more incapable of making his own decisions. She called to the Spirit for guidance, but it did not answer. This, more than the threat to her life, convinced her to back off. For now.

"Very well. But I will require your word that you will do your best to stop Nyx if she wakes up… changed," Wynne managed to articulate despite the pressure and pain in her throat.

Leliana nodded slowly and let go of her. "If it comes to that, I will kill her myself," she murmured as she sheathed her dagger. She paused to survey the rest of the group, seemingly just taking notice of their presence. "Now get out, all of you. Runt can stay."

Morrigan seemed about to say something and Zevran gently prodded her arm, shaking his head. Now was not a good time to argue. He waited until Leliana bolted the door on their backs to exchange a few words with the witch, the two of them agreeing to keep an eye on Wynne's moves, especially her interactions with Alistair. There was not much use watching Nyx's door: Runt and a bat-crazy Leliana were protection enough, unless the unconscious sorceress turned into a full-fledged abomination. In that case, Morrigan added with a little nervous laugh, their best bet would be to grow wings and fly the hell away. Zevran was not amused. _He_ could not grow wings.

Alone in the sunny room with the stoic hound and the unconscious elven sorceress, Leliana finally allowed her tears to flow as she dragged a chair and sat besides the bed. She studied the small figure lying under the warm saffron wool comforters. The elf was sweating profusely, her usually pale face flushed from the fever. Her face and ears twitched now and then, in reaction to dreams or perhaps to some unknown, deeper process. From time to time there came a moan or a whisper, the words indistinct, unrecognizable. Nyx had once boasted of being able to read seven languages, dead languages mostly, and Leliana wondered who she may be talking to. She whispered back, words of encouragement and appeasement that never seemed to reach her friend through the barrier of sleep.

When she felt that all words failed, and that the Warden was slipping further down a dark slope, Leliana did the only thing she knew. She started singing, her voice strong and crystal-clear in the little sun-drenched room.

On and on she sang, ballads of valor or romance, Orlesian or Fereldan, child lullabies and bawdy tunes, sweeping epics and drinking songs. She sang as the sun set behind the mountains, and the noise from the tavern rose to a crescendo, then slowly died out. She sang until her voice was broken, and then she lay onto the bed, cradled Nyx's head and whispered the songs to her ear.

And in the end the sorceress responded. As Leliana whispered her songs, the nervous twitches became less frequent and finally stopped. The pointed ears became still, as if listening intently. Then, as Leliana was nearing the end of her fifth run of the _ballad of Callahad_, Nyx's lips started to move, forming the words along her. Leliana kept singing, caressing the sleeping elf's brow. After a while, Nyx opened her eyes. Leliana felt a pang of fear when she saw that those eyes were now more silver than green. Then the sorceress smiled, and the fear receded.

"Your voice," murmured Nyx. She seemed to have difficulty remembering words, like one who has spent a very long time in a foreign country. "It was shining through. Like a firefly. I followed it to you."

Leliana smiled. The sorceress was indeed talking gibberish, describing voices as fireflies, but at least _this_ was classic Nyx gibberish. The elf always seemed to mix up her senses, all six of them. Leliana suddenly realized that she was still holding her, remembered how the sorceress usually recoiled from human contact, and started to pull away.

"Stay. Please." Nyx's voice was stronger now, but without her usual assurance. There was a hint of something Leliana had never heard in it. The ruthless sorceress, the butcher of men and beasts, was _pleading_. "You have to know. I have to tell you what happened. What I am."

Nyx spoke and Leliana listened, contradictory emotions fighting for control as the enchantress related the events in Marjolaine's bedroom. Leliana felt cold fear grip her as Nyx told her of the Great Wolf, Fern' Harel, and of the pact that was made as the sorceress was devoured and reborn. Of Leliana's own blood, running through Nyx's veins and hurling Marjolaine to her loss. When Nyx stopped talking, Leliana stayed silent for a long minute before she asked what she knew she must.

"What did it do to you, Nyx? Did it… turn you into something?" It was difficult to utter the last word. The dagger's hilt felt very hard and cold under her palm.

Nyx was uncertain of the answer, but she tried her best to figure it out as she spoke.

"To be honest, I don't know. I am still the same person, I think: I remember my life in the Tower, then our travels, every day, every battle." A pause. "And there are things that I think I may be able to remember in time, things that Fern' Harel made me forget when I was a child. I am not sure it's a good thing." Nyx paused again, and there was a trace of humor in the silvery green eyes.

"And I think, I feel, that Fern' Harel has unlocked more than memories. Everything I feel… all sensations, all feelings are just more intense: the sunlight, the noises, the fear of the Taint, everything. I feel like my life before today was spent in a gray haze. Everything was dull. Maybe Wolf was protecting me all this time, protecting me from the colors, the smells, the emotions. Maybe he wanted me to focus on my magic and avoid distractions."

She smiled at Leliana, a happy smile the likes of which were seldom seen on the sorceress' face. Then she returned to the task of answering the question she saw in the blue eyes. The bard's hand was still on her dagger's hilt.

"I don't think Wolf is here with us, no. I think he only gave me a small part of his essence, maybe something like a seed that may grow bigger as time passes. But I know one thing, Leliana. Wolf will not mess with my mission. He has no interest in letting Thedas go to the Blight. He would sodding _starve_ if no souls were left to cross into the beyond."

Nyx stopped to take a sip from the water jug on the bedside table. She felt ravenous, the hunger from the taint added to that of a long, fasted day. And it was not all: underneath the hunger, other, less understood needs were clawing their way to the light, demanding to be acknowledged after a life of neglect. Nyx tilted her head back, reveling in Leliana's smell, lily and leather and a hint of cinnamon.

"I think it was not Wolf's fault that I fell on my ass in the street. Yes, I remember that, and the stupid green dress, too. I think that I was simply overwhelmed by the intensity of all those sensations, and the feelings…" Nyx suddenly laughed. "You know how I always get angry at Alistair for being whiny and stupid? When I got out of that bedroom I looked at him and I found him all bruised and silly and I realized that actually _cared_ for him. And I cared for the smelly drunken dwarf, too. Then you walked in wearing that blue velvet dress."

Nyx paused, her expression grew serious again, and she tried her best to choose her words, feeling like a child describing art to a professor.

"You laughed at Alistair holding me. You looked awfully pale, your hair was a mess, and that cut on your face was bleeding. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And I, I was overwhelmed, because I always knew you were beautiful, but I had never _felt_ it." She sighed. She had done a poor job of expressing herself again. "I don't make much sense, do I?"

Leliana laughed softly and caressed her hair. The touch felt electric.

"Maybe not. Or maybe you make more sense now than you ever did." Leliana gently pulled the sorceress's head closer to her own, felt the tension in her muscles, a hint of animal fear that stood in sharp contrast to the interrogative, hungry expression of her eyes. Nyx just stared, her face mere inches from her friend's, absolutely clueless as to the motions that were expected of her, and Leliana hesitated.

"Please. Show me. I want to be complete," Nyx whispered in a voice that was hoarse with urgency. She timidly reached to Leliana's face, wondering at the elastic warmth of her skin, at the strange sensations it gave her to actually _feel_ another person's life through it.

"Help me. Show me."

Leliana's lips met her own then, and she did her best to respond, clumsy at first, but quickly gaining in assurance and boldness. Nyx's body, it turned out, was willing and able to compensate for her brain's inadequacy.

The revelations of this night struck Nyx with world-shattering intensity, but fortunately did not send her back into a coma.

She was not alone any more.

On the second day, Nyx reluctantly put on her spare white robes – the ones she wore during the Marjolaine incident were irrecoverable- and called Wynne to her room.

The old healer stood proud and unregretful as Nyx gave her a short, censored explanation of her recent condition. The Grey Warden did not mention her pact with the Great Wolf and her newfound Blood Magic abilities. Nyx abruptly explained that she required unquestioning loyalty from her companions and that Wynne's devotion to certain philosophical principles was not compatible with Grey Warden service. Thus Nyx released her from service and sent her back to the Tower with the coolest of farewells. Leliana stood watchful during the whole process. Wynne left and did not look back.

That very evening, Nyx and her companions packed and left for the Brecilian Forest in search of the Wild Elves.


	5. Chapter 5: Communion

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf god

Communion

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all those life-like, strikingly endearing characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I hardly claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

"_The righteous stand before the darkness, and the Maker shall guide their hand."_

The words still brought Leliana focus beyond focus and strength beyond strength. Standing in her own bubble of absolute calm and certainty amidst the billowing smoke and cries of agony, she coolly aimed her bow at one of the screaming, burning men and let fly. The three-ounce arrow flew right through the man's neck and embedded itself into an oak tree thirty paces behind. _Four_. Leliana reached for another projectile and scanned the killing field for a target.

She was standing at the edge of what must have been a tiny woodcutter settlement on the outskirts or the Brecilian forest, nothing but a cluster of a few simple log cabins, rotting and overgrown with twisting vines. For some reason, a small detachment of amateurish mercenaries had chosen this site to try and ambush travelers. Since they obviously knew nothing about covering their tracks – to say nothing of their excrement- turning their trap on them had been a walk in the park.

Of the two dozen or so mercenaries who had been waiting in ambush, about a third were burned to a crisp by Nyx's first move, a raging firestorm which engulfed the wood cabins where most of them had been hiding. The screaming survivors, along with a small archer party posted in nearby brush, were now being slaughtered with cold steel and withering magic as the Grey Warden's party moved to end the battle before it had a chance to begin.

From somewhere close behind Leliana's shoulder came the sound of pure, happy laughter, and then a small, sparkling ball of white, liquid fire flew by in a strangely slow and twisting arc, singing as it flew. The orb of fire found its target in the midst of the remaining archers, hovered just above the ground for a split second, and finally exploded in a blinding flash, projecting burning human flesh all over the place. Nyx's laugh came again, the delighted sound of a child at play, and Leliana shuddered. She wanted very hard to believe that the sorceress was just an amoral, but innocent child, gifted with enough power to torch a small hamlet in seconds. The darker, and more lucid, part of her soul would have nothing of it. Leliana knew all too well of the pleasure – the intoxicating rush, the sense of completion- that one can feel in bringing a quarry down.

As she was drawing her bow for another kill, Leliana sensed Nyx's presence close to her, then feather-light fingers wrapped her upper arm and the elf's tiny body pressed against her back. Even through the drake skin armor, there was an indisputable intimate quality to this simple hug, which made her belly muscles knot in a sudden ripple.

"Let me show you, my love." Nyx's voice came hoarse and imperative as it did during their lovemaking. Her chin was pressed against Leliana's shoulder, the cool breath on her neck sending shivers all the way down the bard's spine.

"Take the shot."

Trying hard to ignore her increasing arousal, Leliana targeted a twitching mess of a man who was moving to flank Sten. She drew breath as she brought her right arm back, then deeply exhaled as she released the arrow. She felt Nyx's power surge through her as she did, a great, gentle wave gathering speed and strength through her being, then flowing into the arrow's head just as the fletching caressed her fingers. Then the arrow was gone, a singing, scorching blue-white star suspended between her and her target. The star buried itself into the man's chest, and through Nyx's body Leliana could feel it swell and bloom into a climax of a miniature sun, just before the explosion shred the mercenary's upper body.

As burning flesh hissed through the air, Leliana finally felt the magical energy dissipate, and her perception returned to normal. She became aware of her own heart beating fast and loud in her ears, of her ragged breath as she stood on wobbly legs. Her bow had fallen to the floor. She had come an inch from having an orgasm. Oblivious to the dwindling battle, she turned to face her lover.

"That was… incredible." Leliana whispered. "How did you…?"

Nyx chuckled softly as she braced herself tighter around the bard, cocking her head with a quizzical look in her green and silver eyes. Leliana was almost painfully aware that the elf's pale, pink lips were about level with her own leather-clad cleavage.

"I have no idea. I just wanted to… show you. You know I like to _experiment_." The way Nyx accentuated that last word suggested that magic was not really on her mind at the moment.

"Maybe there is something _you_ would like to show me?" Nyx purred on, doing her best imitation of an innocent child.

Leliana briefly surveyed the burning village for intact buildings; there were none. She drew a breath.

"Well," she said, "you seem to have torched all available cover. A wise decision in tactical terms, but pretty inconvenient for your current plans, _mon amour_." She paused as Nyx frowned in mock hurt. "But I guess we could try our luck in the woods, if Runt will keep marauders away."

Nyx giggled. "If you're thinking about Zevran, I'd think having his best breeches chewed to shreds last time was a pretty good deterrent. Just give me one minute."

The sounds of the fighting had subsided, and the peace of the forest was now only disturbed by the occasional crash of burning timber and the Warden's companions' lighthearted banter as they went through the dead mercenaries' equipment. Letting go of Leliana's waist, Nyx walked to Alistair and gave him instructions on where to set camp after putting out the fires. She then informed him in a low voice that Leliana and herself were going on a short reconnaissance in the woods. Watching from afar, Leliana saw Nyx's pointed ears turn red as the former Templar grinned and answered in an even lower tone. Nyx did not bother replying and ran back to Leliana in a bubbly, happy fashion that was so new to her character.

"Let's go, Bard! We have some scouting to do!" she quipped as she hooked her arm under her lover and dragged her into the woods. Runt followed them from a distance, happily bouncing around and chasing random bugs.

"What did he say?" asked Leliana, happily letting herself be dragged along.

"Hmm, who?" Nyx sounded embarrassed, a sure way to increase her curiosity.

"Alistair. What did he tell you? To make you blush?"

"Nothing. That is, he told me to enjoy the exploration and be wary of the forest's dangers, _especially_ _ants_. Bastard."

Leliana chuckled and planted a big kiss on Nyx's cheek.

"Don't worry", she said, "I won't let the ants eat you."

Less than ten minutes from the lumberjacks' camp, they found a shallow dell, where a small stream gurgled amidst a wide patch of deep, fragrant grass. They threw their cloaks onto the grass to create a bedroll of sort, and spent the afternoon alternatively making love and basking under the warm, late spring sun. Leliana would always remember this afternoon, the almost luminous white of Nyx's skin against the blue sky and green woods; the sunlight refracted in sparks of green and silver in her eyes as she moaned her name.

All throughout the lovers embraces, and later when, the sunlight turning to glorious crimson, they put on their clothes and walked back to camp, other, not-so-gentle silver eyes watched, loathed, and followed.


	6. Chapter 6: Ritual

**Dragon Age: Pawn of the wolf**

**Ritual**

* * *

Every day, sorceress Nyx wielded unholy power and ruthless determination, spilling her guts to snatch small victories in a desperate war. Slowly, incredibly, the Warden was turning the tides of destiny.

Every night, the nightmares descended on Nyx like a plague of locusts seeping through the broken seals of her mind. Sometimes it was the great dragon's presence, speaking through her tainted blood, roaring and screaming about fire, glory, agony. Nyx thought she could deal with _that, _barely. It was the blurred, deformed and partial memories which made her shun sleep as much as she could. But always, dark slumber came out victorious.

* * *

Everything was dead still around the little tent Nyx shared with her human lover, the silence only broken by the chirp of crickets and Leliana's soft breathing. She was lying on her side next to Nyx. The Warden's night vision was excellent, even for an elf, and the dim moonlight filtering through the half-open tent's door was enough for her to make out the soft curves of the Orlesian's body, clad in a rather too frilly night shirt. The air smelled of warm grass, wood smoke, and Leliana's tantalizing body scent. Nyx smiled and wondered if life could get any better. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, and sleep enveloped her like a velvet shroud.

* * *

She was back at the orphanage. She was a scrawny eight year old elf child and the place was cold, harsh, gigantic. The air smelled of moldy walls, cabbage and ill-washed children.

She was standing in the dimly lit chapel surrounded by singing elven children. They all knew the words of the Chant but she did not. She knew modern and archaic Tevinter, a bunch of ancient Elven runes and a modicum of Orlesian and Antivan. Erudition did not matter here. Nothing mattered since the fire.

Nyx tried to keep her lips moving at a credible rate. Holy Mother Elspeth – _Or was it Dear Mother? Humans had so many empty titles_- was quite absorbed in her singing, smiling and waving her arms gently. But Brother Ciacco, the resident acolyte, was a different story. His small, petulant brown eyes were ever vigilant in his fat, jovial, shiny face. Watching, always watching. As the wandering eyes jumped from one kid to another, Nyx saw the orphans flinch and recoil slightly, like when your hair caught a spider web in a dark place. She knew he was searching for her.

The candles flickered and she found herself looking at the sturdy door of Brother Ciacco's office. She was very scared. Lupa, her rag doll and only friend in the world, was clutched fiercely in her left hand as she turned the door knob and entered. Brother Ciacco stood before his writing case with his back turned to her. He rocked back and forth with small grunting sounds. Lupa twisted and screamed in Nyx's hand and the man turned and lurched forward, his face and abdomen ripped away in great moist wounds, silver glistening where there ought to be eyes and a mouth…

* * *

Nyx clawed her way out of the dream like a drowning man drags himself out of a muddy pond. She lied very still in the dark, hot tent; eyes wide open, focusing on the sounds of the night – wind, crickets, Oghren snoring- in an attempt to bring her heartbeat back to a sustainable tempo. She had bitten her lower lip in her sleep, and had to keep swallowing blood for a while before the bleeding stopped. Surprisingly, Leliana was still fast asleep by her side, undisturbed by her jolting awakening. Nyx was thankful for it.

The tent felt hot and stuffy, and the sorceress was absolutely not eager to get back to sleep. She considered rousing Leliana for a cuddly interlude, decided against it, and crept out of the tent as silently as possible, pausing to snatch her shoes and light travel cape from the tent's entrance. Runt did not stir as she lightly strode over his sleeping form. It was much cooler outside, thanks to a light breeze blowing from the great forest to the East. Stars were clearly visible between the black trees, their light barely dimmed by the thin crescent of the moon. Looking in the camp fire's direction, Nyx realized with mild shock that Oghren was snoring on his watch. The fool of a dwarf must have had one too many. More like three, in fact. The Warden sighed, loath to spoil the calm of the night but knowing that she could not let the drunkard get away with this. At least she would get to trash him real good. As she started moving towards the sleeping Dwarf, the white form of a man stepped out of the shade of the trees, less than twenty paces from her.

Nyx froze even as her mind's hand reached into the ever-present song and glimmer of the Beyond, ready, but not quite willing yet, to rain bitter death upon the newcomer. The stranger simply stood at the edge of the woods, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, calm and poised, seemingly oblivious to the sorceress' unspoken threat. He was radiant in her mind's eye, a strong, purposeful swirl of white-blue power, his very breathing sending faint musical waves through the Veil. He was not quite like anything she had ever met, an elf without a doubt, but also something more. He was beautiful and very, very dangerous. Nyx let out an admiring sigh and allowed her base senses to confirm her impressions.

He was an elf indeed, short by human standards but with a solid, wiry frame. He was naked, and the moonlight reflected on his skin with an impossibly white glow, which seemed to faintly illuminate the nearby grass and trees. Long, black hair fell down his shoulders in curly strands. The black lines of facial tattoos seemed to writhe and twist under the moonlight even as the stranger's face, neither young nor old, remained still and unreadable. Silver eyes were quietly watching the sorceress.

"Who the hell are you?" Nyx took a step towards the naked elf as she spoke, trying very hard to show her usual morgue in spite of her growing fascination.

The man smiled and turned his back to her, strolling leisurely into the woods, his glow vanishing in the darkness below the trees. Nyx let out a curse and looked helplessly at the snoring forms of Oghren and Runt, certain now that their unconsciousness had little to do with fatigue or alcohol. The sorceress hesitated for a few precious seconds. She could work out a way to dissipate the spell, gaining the support of her full party but most likely losing track of the intruder. Or she could throw common sense out of the window and run alone into the whispering forest after a stark-naked, silver-eyed elven apostate.

Easy choice…

Nyx dashed into the shadows of the great trees. After the moon-drenched glade, the darkness of the woods was near-impenetrable even to her piercing eyes. Tree trunks, rocks and bushes were mere impressions of shades, strokes of black ink on slate, and she had to slow down to a brisk walk, following the stranger's imprint on the Veil as surely as a bloodhound on a fox's trail. Something thorny caught the sorceress' foot and she fell, the deep layer of rotting leaves mercifully breaking her fall. Unseen things crept in the cold, wet, putrefied soil. The smell of moss and decay was overpowering. Uttering a string of curses as she got back to her feet, Nyx realized that she had left her staff and dagger at camp. Too late to try and go back; she would not even know how. The sorceress remembered with a bitter snort that she had next to no sense of direction in the outdoors, a consequence of spending most of her life locked up in a tower. Fear, Fen' Harel's clammy and unwelcome gift, sneaked into the back of her mind. Clenching her teeth, she shambled on towards the stranger's glimmer and song.

After minutes which felt like hours of staggering in the dark, Nyx emerged into the familiar hollow where she and Leliana had made love mere hours earlier – or was it days? She felt a little confused. The thin moon, almost vertical in the sky, turned the meadow into a white, near-liquid expanse, rippling in the night breeze. The whispering brook was a string of quartz and obsidian. Less than a hundred yards upstream from the sorceress, the naked man stood on the top of a low, grassy hill. Nyx felt his power radiate in her mind's eye as surely as she had felt the afternoon sun on her skin. She started up the gentle slope at a brisk pace, her fear and fatigue giving way to impatience and longing.

She was about two-thirds up the hill, her breath quick with the climb, when he embraced her. The stranger did not move one muscle, but she sensed his power surge as he unfurled great, shivering spirit wings. Before Nyx could react, the dark wings wrapped themselves around her with predatory speed. She felt a flash of pain in her right side, then the mystical embrace cajoled and soothed and appeased, melting away all fear and anger. Smiling, Nyx resumed her climb as the stranger opened his arms in ardent greeting.

When she was nearly at the top of the slope, she saw the place for what it was. The crown of the mound was a nearly circular hollow, hiding its contents from the surrounding woods and valley. Inside stood a rough circle of low, massive granite blocks, some mere boulders, some polished and exquisitely engraved, all of them worn and weathered by the ages.

The stranger's arms closed around Nyx, his embrace warm and tender like a lover's. The silver eyes bore into hers for an instant, and then the man took her hand and led her into the circle. They stopped before the great obsidian table that stood in the center. Nyx had seen such a place before, in dreams and visions. The man produced a small blade of the same material. Part of Nyx's mind screamed as the blade neared her flesh, but she looked on with a dreamy smile as he cut loose her cape and night shirt. The night breeze gave her goosebumps. He took a step back to appraise her and nodded once, as if his examination confirmed an unspoken theory. He spoke, in a neutral, matter-of-fact tone, answering a question she had asked in an earlier life.

"I am Lyall, Initiate of the Wolf clan. You are of our blood, yet you are not of the clan."

Lyall paused and knelt to reach under the stone table. When he stood up he was holding a wicker basket, which he negligently put on the edge of the great table. Three newborn wolf cubs, their eyes not yet open, were huddled inside. Lyall reached into the basket and held up a wriggling pup by its hind legs.

"You have potential, but not knowledge. You are like this one, a whelp without a pack."

In one smooth, whipping motion he cracked the animal's head on the altar. Blood splattered the smooth surface. Lyall turned to Nyx as he seized the second pup. The sorceress was shaking slightly, but the idiotic grin had not left her face.

"We of the Clan serve the plans of the Dread Wolf. You… serve no purpose."

Another splatter on the cold stone, another small corpse dumped onto the floor. Deep within the prison of her body, Nyx was racing through every mind trick she knew. There was no way out. The third pup was lifted in the air.

"You are a threat to the Clan and a lost soul. It is only merciful to put you down."

The last pup joined its siblings in death. Lyall stepped very close to Nyx, his breath hot on her face. There was a humorless grin on his pale lips as he added softly:

"Not to mention how you defiled your blood with that shemlen whore right in front of our sacred altar." He pointed at the altar. "Now be a good girl and get up there, will you?"

* * *

The divine spark, semi-sentient and lodged like a crystal splinter deep within the she-elf's liver, was too weak to take over its host. The taint was somehow impeding its development, and it would take months or years of gorging on the host's blood and power before it reached the critical mass that would allow Him to interact with the physical realm.

When the Initiate's spirit-wings took control of the she-elf's blood and nervous system, the Spark stirred and mewled in protest, sending waves of searing pain through the host's nerve endings. The zealot doused the nerves with a torrent of endorphins.

Growling, its rudimentary mind vaguely aware of an imminent threat to the god's plans, the Spark started to scan the dark woods in search of His children. It considered the fledglings for an instant and rejected them. Further, less than two minutes' run from the altar, it found a… relatively… suitable tool, a little deformed, perhaps, but strong and retaining most of the savagery of the god's children. Buzzing with satisfaction, the Spark touched the sleeping hound's spirit.

* * *

Nyx knelt smiling on the obsidian table, her arms stretched down and to the side to welcome the killing blow. The rock felt very hard and cold under her bare knees and feet. Her spirit kept fighting the control spell, and kept failing. Lyall stood before her, his beauty radiant under the moonlight, the obsidian blade gleaming faintly in his hand.

From somewhere behind the Initiate, just outside the stone circle, there came a cold, heartrending howl. The Initiate closed his eyes as in ecstasy.

"Welcome, brother in blood," Said Lyall, his voice resounding with respect. "Come, and partake in tonight's sacrifice. Tonight, we send a soul into the Grey Forest."

Nyx heard the soft rustling of paws in the grass as it drew close, heard the panting breath of the animal just as a gust of wind brought her a familiar stench. The sorceress' silver eyes gleamed with fierce anticipation. The Initiate's voice rose into a powerful and final invocation.

"Fen' Harel, Father of the Wolves, please accept this soul for the Dread Hunt!"

Lyall raised the sacrificial blade.

Two hundred pounds of pure fury hit his back with enough force to fell a small cow. The Initiate was projected onto Nyx's body, slamming her hard against the obsidian table and landing in a sprawl with his head on the sorceress' stomach. Runt's huge maw snapped shut around the man's elbow. Lyall's mind control evaporated as the night resounded with the crunching of bones and screams of agony.

"Stay."

Runt followed the command and let go of the Initiate's mangled arm, but kept his back pinned under massive paws. Blood squirted from Lyall's wound in hurried, rhythmic pulses and rained down onto the stone, forming complicated, gleaming arabesques as it spread along invisible carvings on the polished surface.

Lyall made a weak effort to free himself, and Nyx lifted her chest to catch his head with both hands, pulling herself towards him, the long, wavy strands of his black hair streaming on her breast and stomach. She bared her teeth in a cold smile and peered into the silver eyes, so much like her own.

"Time for the sacrifice, you son of a bitch,"she growled.

Nyx felt the black wings of Lyall's spirit unfurl even as she uttered the last word, his power rising like a murderous storm to engulf her. Even at this last moment she could not help admiring his beauty, his effortless elegance. The Veil swelled like a sail in a hurricane as the sorceress ripped crackling, singing mystical energy from the Beyond. Her mind's arm lashed out and tore through the Initiate's spirit like a burning arrow through a swan's wings.

And then, Lyall's glow was no more. Nyx felt strangely empty. Whatever the dead elf's clan was, whatever their connection was, he had taken his secrets away into the Fade. Into the Grey Forest. Nyx shuddered and averted her sight from the dead face.

She pushed the corpse away from her as Runt let himself fall back to the floor, happily wagging his stump of a tail and whimpering for attention. The dog's antics distracted the sorceress from her sad meditations. She jumped down from the altar and proceeded to give the hound's head a vigorous scratching. Runt started to lick the blood on her hands and she recoiled, giggling.

"I'll clean that myself, if you don't mind. Good dog. You're worth every pound of food you eat. Yes, that's a lot."

She put on her shoes and gathered her cape around her shoulders as best she could. The brook's gurgle in the valley below spoke of icy cold water, but she really did not want to get back to Leliana naked and smeared in blood. Somewhat she doubted her human lover would appreciate tales of her sacrificing wild elves to the god of tricksters. Clapping her hands, Nyx turned to her furry companion.

"Well, Runt, I hope you know the way back to camp".

Wedged deep in the sorceress' flesh, like a crystal shard, the Spark of the dread god slept, and fed, and grew.


	7. Chapter 7: Wild honey interlude

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

Wild honey

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all those life-like, strikingly endearing characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I hardly claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

"This is… so… good!" Nyx whispered in her trademark low, raspy voice.

Leliana smiled at her elven lover. The sorceress closed her silver and green eyes, a rapturous smile on pale, pink lips. She happily tilted her head backwards to revel in the morning sun, Clear, white light rippling on her delicate, if somewhat inhuman features. Her thin, blade-like ears twitched slightly at the sounds of the forest. Leliana found herself contemplating the faint outline of a blue vein on her neck.

"Really, 'tis just wild honey. No need to get all _gooey_." Morrigan chided, her mood obviously as foul as ever. She, for one, was eating her share of sweet, sticky honeycombs without a single hint of satisfaction. Alistair and Zevran exchanged a quick glance and, silently agreeing that they knew better than to get involved, went back to wolfing down their breakfast. Nyx ignored the interruption and kept chewing religiously.

"Indeed. But we little people try to find enjoyment in little things." Leliana retorted, loathing the swamp bitch even more than usual. A long time ago, she had honestly tried to understand Morrigan's dark, cynical nature, even gaining a glimpse into the lonely, talented child whose personality had been systematically stunted by a monstrous mother. Leliana had actually felt pity then, but no more. The better she knew the witch, the more she became convinced that there was not a spark of good left in that ill-washed body of hers. Leliana felt a surge of anger as Morrigan shot her a venomous look through half-closed golden eyes.

_You had to spoil the moment_, she thought. _Maker knows, my poor Nyx doesn't get so many chances to let down her burden, and you just have to try and ruin those. I could kill you for this_.

Part of her felt it was wrong, of course. Andraste taught compassion and forgiveness, and Leliana had been trying, very hard, to follow the righteous path, even seeking refuge from the harsh realities of life in the seclusion of a convent. But even then, Leliana had been a wolf amongst lambs. Violence and intrigue had been her bread and butter for too long, and they stuck to her like blood stains on white cloth. When the Grey Warden crossed her path, she knew the Maker was offering her a last, fickle chance at redemption. She had entertained no illusions about her survival odds. The path was clearly cut, and she had happily stepped forward.

Then she fell in love again, and things got complicated.

Leliana knew something was wrong with her taste in lovers, ever since she lost her virginity to a dashing privateer in Orlais - The man seduced her, taught her a few tricks, offered equal partnership on his next expedition, and sailed away with most of her earthly possessions. Over time the pattern repeated itself: a rough and colorful history of falling for unscrupulous men and women, who sought only to take advantage of her beauty and talent. Every time, she persuaded herself that this time was different. Every time, her fallen angels betrayed her. And every time, Leliana emerged from the ordeal harder, bolder, and more desperate. Her life became an intoxicating waltz through Orlais' underworld and highest society, a spiral of deception and violence which culminated in the love of her life, Marjolaine, leaving her broken in a traitor's cell.

But Nyx was different. _She had to be…_

Morrigan grumbled something about Orlesian dancers's readiness to take their pleasure from anything, big or small.

There was a flash of silver as the Warden opened her eyes and looked straight at Leliana, who got the distinct, unpleasant sensation that her lover knew exactly what was on her mind. Nyx sucked a drop of honey off the back of her hand, and then called out in a friendly rasp, the sound just low enough to command attention:

"Morrigan?"

The Witch of the Wilds raised an eyebrow.

"Warden?"

"Fuck off."

Morrigan's reaction spoke volumes to Leliana: the muscles in her neck knotted with tension, then relaxed instantly as her iron will reined in the anger. Further confirmation, Leliana thought, that the wench was ready to endure anything to see her little machinations through. Whatever those plans were, though, she would find Leliana in her way. And if the witch ever tried to harm Nyx, she had better learn to shape-shift into something steel-proof.

Nyx shot a wide grin at the bard and jumped to her feet, signaling the end of the pause. The small band gathered their backpacks and regretfully left the sun-drenched clearing for the whispering shade of the woods.


	8. Chapter 8: Keeper's gambit

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

The Keeper's gambit

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all those life-like, strikingly endearing characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I hardly claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

They found the tracks later in the afternoon, the first sign of the Dalish in days of roaming the outskirts of the forest. The earth and underbrush had been crushed under massive wheels in wide grooves, running along a rough path heading North-East. It was already well into the afternoon, and the gloom under the great trees was taking on a reddish tinge, when they reached the outpost on the trail.

It was not exactly a friendly welcome.

The checkpoint, outpost, whatever the name the haggard elves manning it wished to call it, was nothing more than a jumble of branches thrown across the path where it crossed under the imposing, but decayed remains of some kind of stone arch. _Tevinter_, Nyx guessed from a cursory look at the moss-covered structure. Further along the path, the vestiges of graceful columns emerged from the shroud of dead leaves in an apparently haphazard fashion, the buildings they had once supported long crumbled and forgotten. Ancient trees arched high above the ruins like conquerors over the spoils of war, their powerful limbs raised in triumph. Rustling leaves sang of the fall of empires.

Nyx did not care much for ruins, trees, or cheap symbolism. Signaling for the others to stop, she took a deep breath, closed her flesh eyes and let her mind do the watching.

The forest was magnificent. The songs and swirls of magic were everywhere, coiling around the broken columns, pulsating through the trees' bark, oozing from the deep, rich layer of rotting leaves. And the Veil… The Veil was twisting gently under the action of powerful, mysterious currents, the border between human and spirit world strained and tenuous. Further into the woods, the sorceress realized with a little shock, the Veil might even have been worn open, unleashing wonders and horrors among the shady trees. Close by, a few hundred yards at most, she sensed a vortex of green, humming energy, the aura of a powerful mage - an elf. She felt him react to her scrutiny with mild surprise and heightened awareness.

A quick, hushed exchange, then the sound of light footsteps rustling through dead leaves. Nyx snapped back to the flesh world as three emaciated elves stepped from behind the stone arch, drawing their bows in a fluid motion. The one in the middle, a paper-thin woman with piercing blue eyes, called out to the adventurers.

"Who are you and what brings you to the Dalish?"

Nyx took a step forward, acutely aware of the sharp arrow heads pointed at her breast.

"Is this how you welcome your kind, Dalish?" She said flatly, studying the hunters' angular features. The woman looked tired, her leathers were covered in dirt and Nyx's nostrils informed her that she needed a bath, badly. In truth, she was a fitting counterpoint to the Warden's own weary, dirty crew. Nyx wondered if the darkspawn had already attacked the elves.

The hunter let out a short bark that could pass for a laugh.

"Until proven otherwise, you are not one of us. I do not know your markings, _strange elf_, and you are overstepping on our camp's limits. Let me ask you again: what business do you have here?"

Leliana stepped closer to Nyx, who felt a pang of irritation. The bard had obvious misgivings about her diplomatic abilities. Nyx forced herself to put on what she hoped was a friendly smile, and did her best impression of a diplomatic leader.

"If you must know, _wild elf_, I am a Grey Warden and I bear treatises compelling _your_ people to help me in a little matter, namely, a Blight. Now will you let me pass?" Nyx's voice was growing more heated as she spoke, and she added mentally: "O_r do I get to roast your sorry ass where you stand?_"

From the corner of her eye Nyx caught Leliana's little grimace, and she acknowledged defeat. Maybe she _should_ let the bard do the talking next time.

The hunter's already long face grew inches longer as she lowered her bow and signaled for the little group to follow her. Her jaw did not unclench for the five minutes it took to reach the Dalish camp. As they crossed into the encampment, the companions were met with suspicious, if not outright hostile looks from a few dozen elves, most of them children or older folks tending to the simple chores of cooking, washing or mending already well-worn clothes. There was an aura of fear about the place, reminiscent of the dark hours at Redcliffe. Something was not right. It was the Sten who voiced it first, in his usual matter-of-fact way.

"This is a waste of time. There are no warriors in here."

The hunter's jaw seemed to clench even harder. Nyx fully expected the woman to spit out shattered teeth when, having led them before a big, heavily decorated chariot, she instructed them to wait for Keeper Zathrian to give them an audience. Then the hunter departed without an adieu.

A tiny head with a shock of fiery hair peeked from behind the chariot, the young boy's thin ears trembling slightly in awe and excitement as he studied the monstrous strangers. Nyx found herself staring back just as intently, and realized in shock that she could not remember ever seeing an elven toddler. A powerful scent of mold and cabbage hit her nostrils as blurred, dark memories stirred just beyond her consciousness.

_Rows of chanting children. Brown eyes, glistening amidst fat flesh. Picked bones screaming under the moon._

A gentle, but firm hand caught the sorceress' shoulders just as she was about to fall. Nyx snapped back to consciousness, the visions dissolving like smoke in a gale.

"Are you ok?"

Alistair was holding her, looking at her with an expression of deep worry. Leliana rushed to her side; the former Templar awkwardly retreated as the redhead wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Everybody was staring. Nyx frowned at the display of general concern and silently cursed her own weakness.

"Was it...?" Alistair seemed reluctant to pronounce the word "Archdemon", as if spelling the tainted beast's name could somewhat summon it.

Nyx shook her head.

"No. Not our common friend. Just a little weak spell."

Alistair still looked unconvinced, so she added ruefully: "Girls' problems, you know…"

The Templar's face turned crimson and he hurried to examine an imaginary speck of rust on his gauntlet. Nyx was about to thank him for his help when Zevran chimed in.

"We all know what a fragile little thing you are. But if you can stand by yourself, you may want to limit public displays of affection in here." He discreetly pointed at a group of scowling Dalish huddled around a fire at a small distance, and carried on in a low voice: "I think those people may not entirely approve of, shall I say, inter-species familiarity".

Nyx nodded as Leliana and pulled away from her. The sight of an elf and a human walking hand in hand was as likely as not to cause a riot in many Ferelden cities, and the fiercely isolationist Dalish could not be expected to react any better. The sorceress sighed as a teenaged elf came running at the little group and announced that Keeper Zahrian was ready to meet them.

Following the messenger, the companions were led through a wide circle of chariots into a scene of desolation. The missing hunters, or most of them anyway, were here, laid about on beds and makeshift stretchers. Some appeared horribly mangled, with missing limbs and heavily bandaged heads. Most, however, showed only light wounds, but seemed in the throes of fever. Many were unconscious and foamed at the mouth.

A tall, gaunt elf, wrapped in grey and yellow robes, stood in the middle of all the misery with his back turned to the companions. The man's cleanly shaved head was slightly bent forward, as in prayer. Nyx reflected that the Keeper did not leave much to chance. He could have set the meeting anywhere in the camp, possibly at whatever temple or dignified place of gathering the Dalish possessed. Instead, he chose to meet the Grey Wardens in the middle of a field hospital, masterfully staging his own appearance as bulwark of a people struck by disaster, and making it plainly obvious that any demand placed on the Dalish would be selfish and unreasonable.

As the Warden's party made their way through the moans of the wounded and the stench of infected wounds, Keeper Zathrian slowly turned around to greet them. The night was creeping in, the hour of the wolf, and Nyx was already very close when the man's piercing brown eyes finally made out the outline of her facial tattoos. Not a single muscle in his strangely ageless face betrayed his emotion, but the sorceress needed no other clue than the tremendous pull in the Veil she felt as the elven mage gathered otherworldly energies. Nyx froze, bracing herself for the fight.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Alistair raised his hand in a formal salute and blurted:

"So, anyway, we are with the Grey Wardens and…"

Zathrian smiled, his power crackling in the Beyond. His eyes did not leave Nyx.

"Could you be a Grey Warden?" he asked in a soft voice.

"I am Nyx of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. I seek your help against the Blight. I bring treatises of allegiance." The words came out automatically. At the moment, Nyx did not care much about the Blight, though. She deliberately pulled her consciousness out of the Beyond, hoping the older elf would not seize the opportunity to crush her mind. After a moment, she felt the Keeper's power ebb and contract, returning to its normal, ponderous swirl. Behind her back, Morrigan sighed in relief.

"Indeed. I will examine the treatises later. Not that it makes much difference. As you can see", Zathrian said bitterly, opening his arms to point out the misery surrounding him, "my clan is in no shape to fight. Better luck with the other clans, Warden."

"I wish to talk to you in private, Keeper. Please." Nyx was not a little miffed at being dismissed so readily, but much was at stake. The man in front of her was a potential ally in her fight against the Blight. Without his help in contacting and uniting the tribes, she might roam the woodlands for months before she found another significant Dalish settlement. Moreover, Zathrian obviously had recognized her for one of the Wolf clan. She needed his knowledge, even if she had to _beg_ for it.

Zathrian seemed to weigh her demand for a few seconds, then nodded.

"Yes. I think that might be best. Follow me."

The interior of the Keeper's aravel, the great sail chariot that was the trademark of the Dalish clans, was surprisingly spacious… and so crammed to the brim with books, tablets and scrolls that it was hard to imagine that anyone actually lived in here. Nyx's eyes sparkled as Zathrian lit a candle with a flicker of a finger and a soft rush of magic, illuminating row after row of rich, leather-bound volumes. The contents of this room, the sorceress suspected, were worth many times more than the cumulated contents of the whole encampment. To the Tower-raised orphan, books were lifetime companions. Nyx flared her nostrils as the smell of leather and parchment evoked memories of a little girl who conjured away senior students' books and devoured them in hiding, like forbidden treats.

Zathrian motioned for her to sit at a small hardwood table in the middle of the room. He sat in front of her, uncomfortably close. The older elf smelled very much like his books, clean and dry and oddly ancient. He raised an eyebrow in unspoken question.

"What happened here?" Better get this question out of the way. If the darkspawn were already invading en masse, it might not make much sense to look for other tribes. Nyx would have to move on to other plans.

"Werewolves ambushed us. Foul, mindless beasts which roam these woods. They fell on us several days ago, and they have been harassing us ever since. They cut off our food supply by pinning our hunters at camp, and they have killed many. Worse…"

The man's voice was heavy with sadness as he went on. "Many hunters were wounded. Infected with the curse. They slowly turn into feral beasts. Magic healing, herbs, nothing seems to help. We wait until they turn, then we put them down…"

Zathrian lowered his head, lost in bitter thoughts. Nyx took a few moments to digest the information, trying to reconcile the Keeper's revelations with what she knew of werewolves. The man's words hinted at a coordinated force, ambushing then harassing a group of decently armed elves protected by a powerful magician. Nyx's knowledge was patchy at best, fragments of old ballads and speculations from scholars who had probably never been within a mile from a common wolf. From what she understood, however, werewolves were practically extinct, and were not known to launch massive, coordinated attacks. Especially not if their victims could defend themselves.

Nyx sighed. "I see that you do not have many warriors to spare", she said, "but maybe you could help us contact other Dalish tribes?" Even as she spoke she realized the stupidity of her question. If Zathrian could have obtained outside help, she would not have found him in this predicament. His angry answer brought instant confirmation.

"I tried sending messengers. The beasts killed them and left the hands and feet for us to find."

"Why did they not attack us?"

"How the hell should I know? They are dumb, irrational creatures. Maybe they were not hungry," Zathrian spluttered, his voice rising. Nyx pulled back a little from the onslaught of spit particles threatening her nose.

"Or maybe they don't eat humans and their sympathizers," the bald elf ranted on, but then he abruptly stopped and bit his lips. In a calmer voice, he added: "Forgive me, Warden. Grief makes me forget my manners. I just wish this was all over with…"

Nyx was caught up enough in her own thoughts that the Keeper's outburst hardly annoyed her. Was it possible, she wondered, that the beasts were intimidated by her human companions' (not to mention Sten's) bigger stature? Dealing with half-wolf creatures, there was another possibility she wanted to explore.

"Could it be something about _me_? When you saw me a few minutes ago, you were obviously a little upset. I would guess it had something to do with my tattoos." Nyx leaned over the table, trying to read the Keeper's expression. "Do you know what they mean, which clan they belong to?"

Zathrian looked away, studying the rows of polished leather covers. "Do you really know nothing of your clan, Warden? Have you no living relatives at all?" he asked.

Nyx's mouth suddenly felt very dry. Excitement and something like apprehension knotted her stomach. She spoke softly, the truth at first:

"I was taken to the Tower of mages when I was eight. I have no memories of my life before that. They said I came from an orphanage, so I assume my family was dead at the time." _Now for some lies_. "I have no idea what their clan was. You are the first person who seems to recognize the blood writing. Please. Can you help?"

Zathrian hesitated a little, then shook his head with grave pity.

"Drop your investigations, child. Return to the stone tower, stay clear of the wilderness. Your family is probably dead, but should they still be alive, they will only seek to harm you. And so will the Dalish, to some extent. You bear the mark of an exile and a traitor." The Keeper's voice had grown dreamlike and his eyes wandered over to the cold ashes of a small hearth. Following his gaze's direction, Nyx noticed a crudely carved statuette besides the hearth: a snarling snout in the dark.

"The mark of Fen'Harel?" Nyx completed in a whisper.

Zathrian snapped back to attention and rose, his expression now one of contempt and distrust. "Yes," he snapped, "but it is clear that my warnings are wasted on you, Wolf-clan. I have said too much already. Go and seek the forgotten altars, find your incestuous brothers and see what _they_ tell you."

Nyx was on her feet, too, anger rising, boiling inside like an all-too-familiar poison. She could already picture herself reaching into the Beyond and ripping out great threads of magic to scorch and maim and obliterate…Instead, the sorceress ignored the temptation and simply leaned over the table, hammering it with a small, hard fist as she made her demands known.

"You will remember your obligations, Keeper. You are sworn to help the Grey Wardens against the Blight. Well, right now, _I_ am the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. And I need to know why some cult of tattooed hillbillies wants me dead. I can't fight an Archdemon if I have to watch my back all the time." Nyx lowered her voice as anger threatened to close her throat. "You need to make up your mind. Are you with me, or with the Darkspawn?"

Threats did not come much clearer, but Zathrian allowed himself a full minute of reflection – or maybe he was fighting against his own injured pride and magelust. Finally, the older elf shook his head in disgust and spat out:

"Very well, Warden. I shall tell you what I know. But…" Zathrian raised a hand, "I must first beg your help in the name of my people. Help us get rid of the weres' curse, and I will pledge warriors and knowledge. Refuse to help, and my clan's blood will be on the Grey Wardens' hands."

"And what the hell am I supposed to do about the curse? Do you think I am some sort of healer?" Nyx asked in exasperation.

"Obviously you are not, or you may have proposed your assistance earlier." The Keeper's smile was just short of insulting. "No healing involved, but a fair deal of killing. I am sure _that_ doesn't bother you, does it?"

Nyx really, really wanted to erase the smug smile off the man's face. Hell, she wanted to erase the face from his skull… Zathrian droned on. Somewhere in the forest lived a great spirit wolf, an abomination in an animal's body called Witherfang. The beast was the source of the curse: men bitten by Witherfang turned into werewolves, who then passed on the curse. In theory, killing the beast and using its heart as part of a healing ritual could stop the infection in the Dalish hunters and affect the werewolves as well, maybe kill them outright.

"In theory? What happens if you're wrong?" Nyx didn't like the direction this conversation was taking. _Another sodding errand_.

"Then I will tell you what you seek to know, and provide guides to see you to the nearest Dalish settlements. But with the help of the gods, it will not come to that."

"What keeps you from tracking down the wolf yourself? Surely you can work _some_ magic?" The sorceress trusted the man about as much as she liked him.

Zathrian sighed. "And leave our old and young here, with only a handful of hunters to protect them? If I come back to a graveyard, what use will the heart be? No, Nyx of the Grey Wardens. I will not leave my people to die alone. But _you_ may have a chance. The werewolves have never seen such a group as yours; and may not attack until you are upon their creator."

"Or they may eat the lot of us in plain sight of your camp," Nyx grumbled. The man was hiding something, but short of plain slaughtering him and his people, there was not much she could do about it. The sorceress thought of the red-haired fledgling by the chariot. For some obscure reason, she did not want to see that one massacred. _What did Lel call Sten to make him mad? A big softie. I am turning into a big softie._

"I see your point", the sorceress added, "Just make sure to keep your end of the bargain, Keeper. Or you will find that werewolves are cute and cuddly compared to me."

Zathrian did not dignify the threat with a reply. He simply stood with his arms crossed as the Warden left the aravel and walked away with quick, impatient strides. Maybe the young sorceress would succeed, Zathrian mused, or maybe she would be gutted by the werewolves in the dark woods. Either outcome would serve his plans well.


	9. First blood

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

First taste

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

Acting on Sten's advice, the companions retreated to the northern edge of the Dalish camp, where the crumbling remains of Tevinter architecture offered some protection. Everyone was on edge and slept in full battle garb, but the night went by without other incident than sentries being startled by intermittent growls and the sound of hushed voices in the woods. Huddled for warmth against her human lover, Nyx dreamt of the cool embrace of the Stone. She was snuggly encased in a rocky womb, her body well-fed and far-reaching. Her children watched over her with adoration, bleating as they brought an offering. She pulled it to her beak, and the meat screamed with Leliana's voice, clear blue eyes mad with terror.

Nyx ripped through the black, oily layers of nightmare and was relieved to find the Orlesian fully awake and listening. The scream echoed again, coming from somewhere within the Dalish camp. The bard rose to a crouch and darted out of the tent, picking up her bow and quiver in one smooth, feline motion.

"Wait!" Nyx groaned as she fumbled with robes and blankets. If Leliana moved like a cat, the sorceress was feeling more akin to a sleepy, pissed-off badger. She stumbled into the pale morning, and felt thoroughly miserable as her naked feet met cold, wet grass. Her companions were standing in a rough circle around the little encampment, scanning their surroundings. The sorceress thankfully noted that even Alistair had enough sense not to rush headlong into what may be an ambush. Leliana raised an eyebrow in a silent question. What Nyx really wanted was fried eggs and a hot bath, but… Grey Warden leadership and all…

"We do as usual. This may be an ambush, so go slow. Be wary of the elves…" She saw Zevran's trademark smirk widen just a little, "I don't trust them fully. Let's go."

In the end, there was no use for battle tactics. As the companions moved forward, they found a circle of silent, sad-looking elves standing at the edge of the wretched field hospital where the Keeper had met them. The hunters' bows were trained on a grey-haired woman who was kneeling on the floor, hunched over what seemed to be a pile of dirty rags. Runt gave out a short warning bark, his attitude vigilant but not outright hostile. Nyx saw that the grass around the woman's knees was splattered with dark blood. The rags moved faintly, and the sorceress realized what the woman with the grey hair was shielding with her own body. Strange, elongated limbs, covered in dark grey fur, emerged from tattered, bloodied hunter's garments. The woman cradled the hairy, oddly ape-like head, and whispered something. The thing whined feebly.

"Maker," Leliana whispered. "It's one of _them_."

Zathrian stepped into the circle of hunters. The elven leader looked like he had not slept much: haggard, sad, confused. He called to the prostrate woman, but stopped clear of reaching for her. "Antha, please. You know we must do this. Sethorn is gone."

"Go away, Zathrian." The woman slowly raised her head, her jaw quivering with grief. The stylized outline of a tree was tattooed on her face. "He's dying. You killed my boy. Why can't you give us a few minutes of peace?"

Zathrian was obviously not used to seeing his leadership contested, especially not in front of strangers. "Do not be foolish, woman," he snapped. "Your son is no more. You will gain nothing by getting infected."

"He talked to me. He asked for help."

There was a small commotion, whispers running amongst the assembled elves. Zathrian frowned and the voices died out.

"You are delirious, Antha. Maybe infected." At the Keeper's direction, two hunters seized the woman's arms and dragged her away as she screamed insults. The werewolf on the floor seemed unconscious. It did not stir when the spears pierced its chest, pinning it to the grassy soil. One of the hunters openly wept while he retrieved his weapon.

Alistair turned to face Nyx. There was a flame in his brown eyes, the like of which was seldom seen in the good-natured warrior. "Let's go find that Witherfang," he growled. Nyx simply nodded.

* * *

"That Zathrian struck me as a bit of a cold-blooded bastard." For an assassin, Zevran was surprisingly talkative, and this was just one of his many attempts at alleviating the mood during the long search through the luxuriant forest. The Antivan and Leliana were scouting ahead with Runt, trusting the great hound to pick up the werewolves' trail.

"High praise, from an Antivan Crow?" Leliana's asked in a friendly jab. Over months of drawing steel together, the two rogues had come to reluctantly acknowledge each other's competence, and even developed a complicity of sorts. The fact of the matter was, for all their ethical differences, they understood each other pretty well. Trust, of course, was a different beast.

Zevran had a good-humored chuckle. "Killing in cold blood and being a cold-blooded person are two different things... As you well know, I might add. But…" The Antivan elf's cocked his head slightly to the side, a mischievous smile playing on his handsome features, "… I can assure you that if you knew me better, you would _not_ think me cold-blooded."

"An interesting idea. Perhaps I should discuss it with the Warden."

"Now _that_ sounds exciting. The more the merrier, hmm?" Zevran was positively beaming by now.

"That… is _not_ what I had in mind." Leliana's cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. Zevran enjoyed the display of embarrassment without really buying it. The Orlesian's mix of apparent innocence and deadly resolve, he mused, marked her as a hunter extraordinaire. He wondered how many men had died in her bed. _Not a bad death at all._

"Surely you must have enjoyed…"

"Zev," the bard's lowered voice and unusual use of the diminutive cut short the Antivan's pleasant train of thought, "whatever you think of me… and you may well be right on some points… Nyx is different, you know? She is nothing like you or me. So let's just draw the line… don't try to damage her. Please."

Zevran gleefully kicked a fallen chestnut; the tiny, spiky ball bounced away like a miniature, crazy hedgehog. "You may be taking this a little too seriously, no? That sexy sorceress of yours hardly strikes me as defenseless…"

A few feet from the Antivan, Runt suddenly froze; ears cocked back, small, amber-colored eyes intensely focused on a point far ahead. Following the hound's gaze, Zevran perceived a glimpse of motion, a mere hint of distant, dark shapes between grey tree trunks. Runt looked at his two-legged companions with a nearly human, questioning look.

"Not now, Runt. We have to warn the others first," Leliana whispered. The dog shot her a disappointed look, then wheeled around and darted towards the rest of the two-legged people and his revered pack leader. For such a big animal, the mabari's paws made surprisingly little noise as it galloped through low brush and fallen leaves. The rogues followed in a half-crouching run, silent and sinister like ghosts.

* * *

Nyx was quite pleased with the hunt.

The small werewolf pack had proved less of a challenge than expected; their simple ambush easily foiled when the Warden's party caught them in a crossfire of spells and arrows. The woods resounded with pitiful yelps as the beasts fell without ever getting a good look at their attackers. The massacre lasted half a minute.

Now Nyx was treading gingerly among a half-dozen seared and arrow-ridden corpses, marveling at their strangely articulated limbs and peculiar mix of human and beastly features: repulsive, yet oddly fascinating. She felt, she knew that those were the product of magic, albeit of a kind unknown to Circle magi. Crouching by a relatively intact corpse, she gently ran her fingers along the powerful jaw, feeling the soft fur and the powerful, clenched muscles.

_Rigor mortis should not have set in yet…_

Nyx jumped back just as the great jaw snapped shut, missing her hand by a hair's breadth. Tripping over her own robes, the sorceress fell hard on her back. The deep layer of rotten leaves gave way, sucking her down into dead plant limbo. The werewolf was on her, pressing her deeper into the ground, jagged fangs mere inches from the elf's face. Something was stabbing into the sorceress' chest and belly: the shafts of long arrows protruded from the beast's torso, momentarily keeping the gaping maw at bay. The stabbing pain grew sharper as the creature pushed down, effectively impaling itself in its bid to reach its murderer's throat. Nyx could almost physically feel the werewolf's hot, implacable fury. Deep within the sorceress' guts, something primitive stirred in response. A small, low growl burned her throat as she bared small, pearly teeth… The smell of the prey's blood was intoxicating, and so was the taste of her own blood, rich and coppery as she bit, hard, on her own lip. Time congealed into a thin, red mist, and suddenly there was nothing between the sorceress and the great, wild heart, beating so fast and loud. As she stilled the fluttering organ, Nyx reveled in her prey's fear.

* * *

Zevran was surveying the killing field when he saw the werewolf topple the Warden and pin her to the ground. As he rushed forward, the elven assassin felt a pang of frustration at being fooled by the creature's simple ruse. The beast's head bent low over the fallen sorceress, and even as Zevran lunged, his poisoned blades simultaneously burying into the werewolf's kidneys and cerebellum, he was fully expecting to hear the sound of the sorceress' bones being crushed by huge fangs. Despite his concern, the Antivan took a second or so to twist the serrated blades inside the wounds, ensuring that the damned thing would stay dead. Unless it was undead, he reflected as he yanked the body to the side. Either way he would behead the thing just to be on the safe side. Looking down at the fallen Warden, Zevran let out a short hiss of surprise. Apart from a small rivulet of blood trickling from the corner of her pink lips, Nyx looked perfectly healthy… and a little more than that. The pale elven sorceress was lying on her back, her head raised as though she had just been peering into the now-defunct werewolf's face. Whatever she had seen in there, Zevran thought, seemed to make her _really happy_. There was a vague, absent grin on Nyx's face; the eyes were unfocused, the pupils immense in the silver and green irises. Her small breasts heaved in great, rhythmic gasps. Zevran felt a surge of mild revulsion as he thought of Antiva's opium-eating doxies.

A whirlwind of red gold and brown leather smashed into Zevran's shoulder, and he barely caught his balance as Leliana rushed by the Warden, brushing aside the shorter man as though he had not just saved her lover's rosy behind. The lack of gratitude slightly vexed him: further proof, he thought, of the barbarity of the people south of Antiva. Sighing, Zevran pulled a little black flask out of his belt pouch, carefully wiped his daggers clean, and proceeded to apply a fresh layer of poison onto the blades. All the while, he kept an eye on the mildly titillating spectacle of the bard attempting to smooch her little mage back to reality.

A short distance from the scene, Oghren took a pause from skinning a werewolf – Zevran suspected he intended to add un-tanned skin to his already staggering stench- and clamored for the ladies to stop teasing and get it on at last. Leliana muttered an Orlesian curse as she helped the still dreamy-eyed sorceress to her feet.

Zevran rubbed his chin as he watched the Warden dust off her robes and give the Orlesian a quick hug. Something was amiss. Runt, jealous of the attention, was bouncing around the pair like a spoiled child. And that's where it hit:

_The mabari had not moved a muscle while the werewolf pinned its mistress to the ground._

* * *

"I'm fine, Lel. Just a little shaken, that's all. You would be, too, if one of those things jumped you without warning." Nyx spoke lightly, eager to change the subject as the group slowly followed what appeared to be fresh werewolves' tracks. But the bard was not easily fooled.

"Are you sure that's all? You don't look too good." Leliana's questioning was becoming more irritating by the minute. Nyx was pretty darn sure that she did not want to get into the details of her close encounter with the beast, and even less so of the way she had ended it. Leliana had known about the Wolf-god for weeks, since they first became lovers in Denerim; but that did not mean the bard would approve of her resorting to blood magic. Still, that was not what troubled Nyx.

Part of the problem, she reflected as her lover waited anxiously for an answer, was that Nyx herself did not understand what just happened with the werewolf. Magic had been her life and all-consuming passion for as long as she remembered. Magic permeated all her senses; it was central to her perception of self as well as the outside world. And she knew she had a unique gift for it. Where her masters theorized, Nyx felt; where they strived, Nyx simply _did_. Controlling her power was no more an issue than remembering to breathe. Only idiots and weaklings needed concern themselves with such things.

Fen'Harel's gift of blood magic was different: an alien, wily force, which may prove difficult to dominate, even for her. She had decided to refrain from using it until she understood its nature better. But the encounter with the werewolf had been too much of a revelation to be ignored. Now the elven sorceress felt she stood at the brink of the abyss. Before her was a world of new sensations, immense possibilities, and unknown dangers. That she should hesitate to explore it: that was the _real_ mystery. A testament to how much she was changing, losing herself perhaps, under the influence of the clear, wonderful song-being that was Leliana. The sorceress wondered if she had escaped the Tower only to fall into a new, more insidious servitude.

Nyx frowned. Her chest was tender where the arrows had bruised it, there was a dull pain in her right side, and she was hungry. "Yes, I _am_ bloody sure," she groaned, "Andraste's tits, Lel, you don't have to worry about me every time I sneeze."

"Why, yes, you sneezed. Silly me, I thought you were attacked by a werewolf." The bard's voice was cool, musical, and exactly modulated to make the sorceress feel like a complete fool. _Bard magic, _she thought_. Not fair_. Nyx clenched her teeth for a second, then closed her eyes and forcefully relaxed as she focused on the shifting shapes, smells and songs of the _real_ world. The forest was a cauldron of magical activity; in all directions, the Veil shifted and undulated as mystical creatures milled about, mostly oblivious to the sorceress' scrutiny. Somewhere, not too far away, she could now feel a roiling nexus of unnatural energies: the combined auras of many lesser beings and one great, pulsing presence that may well be the object of her quest. Nyx's eyes snapped open as she tripped over a protruding tree root, instinctively catching hold of the nearest solid object, which happened to be the bard's arm.

"Sorry," the elf grumbled. Leliana's blue eyes zeroed in on hers with an ironic look. The Orlesian was kind enough not to ask what for.


	10. Chapter 10: Bloodlust

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

Bloodlust

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

"So, do werewolves count time in dog years?" Zevran inquired as the companions followed the grizzled creature down a humid, ill-lit stairway. The older werewolf had offered a truce and access to his mysterious mistress, a being he referred to as the Lady. Since the adventurers were immensely weary of killing and trudging through musty dungeons, the general mood had been one of relief when the Warden accepted the offer.

"Why, you wanna adopt one? Maybe breed it with the Mabari, sell puppies?" Oghren cared nothing for murmurs. Runt let out a deeply outraged growl.

"You know, if you do, we will all soon have to wear spiky collars and fetch sticks for the Masters," Alistair philosophized.

"Hum, I think a spiked collar would look great on you, maybe with a black leather harness to match?" The Antivan waited patiently for the words to make their effect. The look of bewilderment, when it came, was always worth the wait.

The venerable werewolf growled and shook a shaggy, white-streaked head in exasperation. "You outsiders never shut up?" he inquired in his low, grunting voice.

"Sometimes they sleep," Sten rumbled stoically.

Much to their guide's relief, the companions soon reached their destination. The stairways opened into a hall of epic proportions, the high ceiling supported by graceful arches of stone. Every inch of exposed stone was engraved with vegetal motives. In the innermost portion of the hall, the roof had caved in, and immense tree roots rose from a clear rainwater pool. From a distance it was hard to tell the original design from the more recent work of nature. Sunlight poured in through the broken roof. Werewolves stood in two rows on each side of the stairway, their yellow eyes squinting in the daylight. The creatures growled and hissed softly as the Warden and her escort passed through their ranks. Standing by the pond was a being the likes of which Nyx had never seen.

The Lady was human in general shape and size, similar in form to a naked woman with the regal bearings and ageless face of a statue. The comparison stopped here, though. The creature's skin and hair had a faint grey-green hue reminiscent of sunlight on tree bark, and her shapely arms ended in gnarled, sharp appendages which reminded the sorceress of an unholy mix of tree limbs and animal claws. The spirit's eyes were twin ovals of onyx, black and devoid of expression. Nyx appraised her in her mind's eyes: a thing of shimmering light and immense vitality. The Lady, she saw, was not entirely contained in this room: the tendrils of her consciousness radiated in all directions like an ethereal network of roots, drawing knowledge and substance from the very forest around the ruins. As the sorceress drew close, the spirit stayed perfectly still, her perfect features devoid of all emotion. A short, awkward silence ensued.

"Sooo… Do you have something to tell me, or did you just want to show off your tits?"

Nyx's raspy voice echoed through the great hall. Before the Lady could give an answer, a huge, black werewolf stepped forward indignantly, bending over low so his small, yellow eyes were level with the sorceress'.

"You will show respect, little elf!" the thing roared, massive claws clenching and unclenching as though eager to snap the impudent little Warden's neck.

"Or what? You're going to smother me with your _corpse_?" Nyx replied with a humorless grin. She was intensely aware of the werewolf's heart, beating close and loud, pumping torrents of raw power. The beast's massive muscles were so many strings begging to be pulled. All within her grasp.

"Peace, Swiftrunner!" The Lady intervened in a voice reminiscent of the wind in foliage. "Too much blood has been shed already." The spirit turned to Nyx. "Do you wish to hear what I have to say, stranger, or do you seek only to satisfy your bloodlust?"

The sorceress nodded curtly. "Speak then, spirit", she said.

Nyx stood among the werewolves, her irritation reaching dangerous proportions as the Lady told how Zathrian created the very curse he would later ask the Warden to destroy. As the spirit's voice abated, the sorceress shook her head in disbelief.

"So now you want me to fetch Zathrian so he can undo the curse? The very man who sent me _here_?"

"It is the best way for both the elves and my children", the spirit reminded her. "Besides, you will not have to go far to find him. He has been following you, bidding his time to make his move."

"Horseshit. I would have sensed his presence", Nyx answered contemptuously.

The Lady smiled. "You are gifted, Nyx of the Grey Wardens, and your raw power is impressive, but you are still very young. Zathrian has been a master of the arcane arts for several centuries. It only makes sense that he would know a few more tricks than you do."

Nyx's considered the possibility, her tongue playing with the torn flesh in her mouth. The swollen lip and the jagged bits felt like a foreign body. She could have healed the wound; then again, for all the recent increase in her power, Nyx's healing capabilities were still sub-par; maybe even more so than before she left the Tower. She shuddered slightly as she remembered what used to happen to most of her test rats, back then. The inconvenient sensation in her mouth was not worth the risk of growing a sodding _tumor_. Back to the problem at hand, she decided that the Lady was probably right. Something still intrigued her.

"This… curse you have been talking about. It is blood magic, right? How did Zathrian gain knowledge of such magic?"

The Lady shook her head slightly. "I understand little of those things. It is possible that he learned it from some Tevinter relic. The ruins in this forest used to be littered with them. Or it could be that he made a pact with some demon," she offered.

"Right... Forget that I asked," Nyx groaned, gently massaging her own temples to stave off the coming headache. It seemed like this day would never end. She could smell sweat on her robes, mingled with the faint, vaguely sweet whiff of werewolf blood. She would count herself lucky if she didn't get fleas from the darn beast. Maker's warts, she couldn't even remember the last time she'd had a _bath_!

Sighing, the sorceress motioned for her companions to get moving.

"So you _will_ help us after all?" The spirit sounded almost incredulous.

Nyx shook her head. "I'm still undecided on that one. But for now, I need to have a nice chat with Zathrian", she dropped as she left the great stone hall.

* * *

_The bare-ass spirit was right._

Nyx's pride was not a little wounded to find confirmation that Zathrian had indeed eluded her perception, effectively playing hide and seek in the dark woods for the whole day. The Keeper stood calm and collected on a patch of grass just outside the ruins, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff as the sorceress closed the distance with quick, angry strides.

"I see you do not have the heart", the Keeper said in greeting.

"I see you are still the same smug-looking, backstabbing son of a nug", the sorceress countered, "The same fool who would rather let his people suffer than admit to his own incompetence." She was done being a tool for the forest's denizens. And she was going to get answers, even if she needed to torch Zathrian, the Lady and the whole sodding forest. In fact, she would _enjoy_ it.

Zathrian snickered. "So, you've heard Witherfang's side of the tale. I am sure you found it heartrending. You are aware that the Lady and Witherfang are one and the same, aren't you?"

"You are aware that I _do not give a_ _damn_?" Nyx replied, "You played me for a fool, Keeper, sending me on an errand like a child…" The sorceress lowered her voice, "but you have knowledge that I want. Help me, Zathrian, and I will help you."

Zathrian smiled contemptuously. "And now you reveal your true nature", he spat, "I will never help one of your kind, Trickster spawn."

_Could have said so earlier, Baldy_, Nyx thought, _too bad I need you alive_.._. _She let her power swell and crackle as she gathered magic from the Beyond; her aura towered above the Keeper like a roiling thundercloud. Zathrian's smile widened and he opened his hands, releasing his grasp on the thing Nyx had mistaken for a staff.

Something cool and dry pulled the sorceress' legs from under her, and she fell flat on her stomach with a little yelp of surprise, losing her grasp on the Veil. Fighting a wave of panic, Nyx curled into a fetal position even as her unknown attacker dragged her away from the older mage. What appeared to be tendrils of wild vine were tangled around her ankles and calves: moving, twisting vines. Nyx screamed in rage and doubled over to seize the writhing ropes. Tiny, white tongues of fire flickered at her fingertips and she was able to break free for a moment.

The ground in a wide radius erupted as more vines shot out of the earth, sending pebbles and dirt flying in a reddish cloud. The vines seemed to have a mind of their own; they sought to trap Nyx's companions' limbs and drag them to the ground. Still, the plants did not seem very effective against armor-clad, steel-wielding opponents... Except as a distraction, Nyx realized as she scrambled to her feet and scorched the ground around her with a burst of short, blue flames. She turned to Zathrian just in time to see him finish casting his second spell. A great wind seemed to agitate the trees around the chaotic, writhing expanse where the Warden's companions were hacking away like demented gardeners. Then, with a sound evocative of a hundred creaky cabinets possessed by a hundred grumbling demons, the trees themselves joined the battle. Before the sorceress's incredulous eyes, elms and oaks, their very shape remodeled into gaudy imitations of the human form, lumbered forward to smash and seize and crush. The creatures were slow and clumsy, but their sheer size and numbers made them irresistible.

Nyx watched agape as her companions ducked the onslaught as best they could. Wood chips and bark flew as the warriors' blades hit in reprisal; the bellowing trees hardly seemed to notice. The sorceress saw Oghren's axe bite halfway through a moss-covered "leg"; the handle was wrenched from the dwarf's hands as the thing fell with a great snapping sound. The tree-creature kept clawing and reaching blindly even as it rested face-down in the dirt. Closer to the Warden's position, Morrigan's hands erupted in blue streaks of lightning; the spell caused its target to twitch and stagger, but fell short of igniting the green wood. Nyx frantically scanned the battlefield, sighing in relief at she caught a glimpse of Leliana's red hair, flicking in and out of vision as the bard, daggers sheathed, danced between the grey, lumbering shapes. The tree-things howled in frustration, smashing and entangling each other's limbs as they tried to get a hold of the nimbler human.

The Warden hesitated. Her first instinct was to go for Zathrian and hope that the creatures fell with their maker; however, there was no telling what the casualties may be. Deep within, Nyx the Sorceress leered at her own weakness. _You have not survived this long by being squeamish_, she thought. _Screw you_, answered the newly awakened, redhead-addicted alienage orphan. The struggle was short. After all, both sides of Nyx could always agree on one point.

_Torching stuff was too much fun to pass._

The sorceress reached into the Beyond with all the calm assurance of a seasoned craftsman, pulling great strands of flickering magic which she arranged into a spiraling, humming symphony. When her work was finished –it could not have been more than a few heartbeats- Nyx lovingly released her creation upon the wretched things that defied her. A raging vortex of white-hot fire, streaked with blue and the occasional trace of yellow, materialized beyond the line of possessed trees and rolled forward ponderously. Nyx laughed in delight as the first of the creatures caught fire, their groans and creaks quickly lost to the roar of the blaze and the bangs of exploding wood. _Next time I'll add a pinch of sulfur_, she mused.

"Run away! She's at it again!" Alistair screamed as the companions scrambled to get away from the blast. Wisps of smoke were already wafting from the former Templar's hair and armor. As he ran past Morrigan, the witch snickered and caught him in a blast of cold.

"Th-thank you," the heir to the throne of Ferelden managed to say through chattering teeth.

"Someone has to keep you alive. We may yet run out of meat," the witch explained with a thoroughly disturbing smile.

Alistair rather abruptly turned his back on Morrigan, just in time to witness the final demise of the tree people. As the blaze rolled forward, fueled by the burning substance of their kin, the things simply stood their ground and lunged at the flames with awkward, unnatural motions. Predictably, that strategy did them little good. The Warden's companions had to take a few steps back as the remaining creatures ignited and the smoke and heat reached truly infernal levels.

"So, Warden, when… does the spell end?" Morrigan inquired with the slightest hint of worry in her voice. Nyx was toying with a strand of black hair while she watched the blaze. She, for one, enjoyed the heat.

"The spell?" The elf repeated absently. Zathrian was gone, and she had been trying, unsuccessfully, to find his track on the Veil. She cast a sharp look at the taller witch. "The spell has already ended, as you must know. But the fire will burn until it runs out of fuel. Fires tend to do that."

'Maker's breath!" Leliana interjected, throwing her arm around the smaller elf's shoulders, "you _do_ know that we are in the middle of a forest, _mon amour_?"

Nyx's cheeks were burning now, and not just because of the expanding forest fire. She stared at the dirty points of her boots.

"Yeah", she muttered, "Maybe we'd better get back inside the ruins."

* * *

They found Zathrian inside the Lady's great hall. Nyx had to admire the man's audacity and mastery of the Art. He had the Lady – now in wolf-form, Nyx noted distractedly- and her followers under some kind of paralysis spell. _Possibly blood magic_, she pondered. Whatever the hex, it would have required considerable power to capture and keep such a powerful spirit under its sway. And it showed.

Zathrian was mortally pale, his aura now visible to the sorceress but much weakened, hardly more than a flicker on the Veil. _Good_, Nyx thought. If the man tried to fight her spirit against spirit, he would shatter like water on a rock. The Keeper started as the Warden and her escort entered the room. The look in his gaunt, drawn face betrayed fear and a hint of madness. His left hand rested on the great spirit wolf's mane in an almost affectionate fashion. The right hand clutched a short, broad dagger that appeared to be made of some sort of dark, hardened wood. The blade shook slightly. All around him, werewolves were frozen in various aggressive postures, their small eyes rolling in panic.

"I hope those trees weren't your friends, Keeper; they sure sang nicely while they burned," Nyx quipped as she cautiously walked down the short flight of ruined stairs to the hall. _Careful with the darned robes_, she thought. She really needed to get rid of the silly mage paraphernalia and get a hold of some trousers.

"Sorry to disappoint you. I don't make a habit of befriending trees, animals, or shemlen", the man croaked. Nyx waved the insult away with a gracious smile as she reached the last step. Zathrian raised his dagger a couple inches.

"You try really hard to make me angry, don't you?" Nyx was halfway across the stone floor, taking her time: there was no way the man could kill Witherfang before she stopped him.

"Why is that, Zath'? Do you really think I will kill you in a fit of anger?" The sorceress moved closer, so close that the man's heartbeat was almost deafening.

She was less than ten feet from Zathrian when she felt him tense to bring down the dagger; it was difficult to say whether the blade was aimed at Witherfang, or at his own heart. But Nyx was ready.

The sorceress' lower lip was swollen, the flesh raw and tender in her mouth. It took very little effort for her teeth to reopen the small wound as she walked down the stairs, and it did not hurt much. Only when she tasted the blood in her mouth did Nyx know, without a doubt, that Fen'Harel's gift was truly at her command, waiting like a great hound to be unleashed upon the quarry of her choice. Zathrian was today's catch, and at long last she had him in the palm of her hand. Hopefully he would spit out something useful before she fed him to Witherfang.

The tsunami of sensations which washed over Nyx as she summoned blood magic was just as savage, intense and _sexual_ as it had been in the morning. And yet it was different: now it felt oddly familiar, the fear of the unknown replaced by the feeling of being welcomed by the arms of a very old, very dear friend. That familiarity was comforting, and utterly treacherous.

Coiled, snug and safe, within her very own bubble of space and time; linked to her prey by invisible, unbreakable threads of magic, the conscience that went by the name of Nyx leisurely examined her victim. The complex, delicate networks of nerves and blood vessels shone brightly through the red haze of the flesh. The sorceress watched as her own blood took over the unwilling host: an army of tiny, scarlet particles that worked as quickly and ruthlessly as slaver ants. She saw a nerve impulse, like a purposeful, shimmering caterpillar, creeping from the iridescent spider web that was the victim's brain, towards the clenched muscles of the right arm. On a whim, Nyx reached for the tiny caterpillar and gently altered its purpose. After a long, long time, Zathrian's muscles flexed obediently, bringing the blade across the man's chest and slicing diagonally in a short, shallow cut. Nyx instinctively dulled the nerve endings as the blade cut, easing the victim's pain, but not his fear. And then the sorceress was caught.

The prey's blood gushed out of its body in a torrent of incandescent, unrestrained power. Nyx sent out her consciousness to meet it, and the raw magic roiled through her like a river of molten silver. For a moment, the pain and exhilaration were almost too much to bear. But then she knew she had nothing to fear. Fear, she understood, was the lot of weaklings and mortals. Nyx was nothing like them. She alone would withstand the assaults of time and wield the might of gods. Already she was transcending the chains of the flesh; she needed but a little more power, a little more blood to sate the hunger of millennia…

* * *

Standing atop the stairs, Leliana watched uneasily as Nyx proceeded with her plan, if one could call that a plan. She hated it for the Warden – _her_ Warden- to take unnecessary risks, but the elf would not listen to reason. Ever since her rescue from the werewolf's claws, earlier today, Nyx had appeared withdrawn, distracted. Leliana suspected that the sorceress was growing obsessed with Fen'Harel's lore, struggling to find a way out of the pact she made with the ancient deity. She knew Nyx was scared in spite of all her bravado. And she knew, beyond all doubt, that it was all happening because of her, of her stupid vendetta against Marjolaine. Leliana could almost hear the bitch's laugh, rich and musical, echoing from the grave. She clenched her fist, so hard her short nails nearly drove through the skin. For now, all she could do was hope that Nyx's audaciousness would not lead her to disaster, as it was bound to do sooner or later.

Leliana felt a pang of fear as both the little sorceress and her rambling opponent froze with the perfect synchronicity of dueling mimes. Nearby, Morrigan suddenly staggered and covered her mouth with her hands, her beautiful face turning livid. The bard distractedly reflected that it was the first time she ever saw the witch sick. Marjolaine's teachings flashed through her mind: "_A strong constitution can indicate a heightened resistance to poison. When in doubt, just double the dose"_. She hated herself for remembering.

Lower down the stone hall, Zathrian moved, and instantly an arrow's fletching was caressing Leliana's hand, the bow still held low, but ready to sing at the first sign of foul play. _We are all killers, my love_. Nyx's words, whispered so many nights ago and burned clear in her memory.

Leliana watched with morbid fascination as Zathrian slowly drew his dagger across his own chest, slicing through cloth and flesh. A fine, red mist rose from the split skin, twisting like something alive. The ethereal serpent rocked back and forth for a second, hesitating, then gently coiled itself around the Warden. Long, vaporous tendrils unfurled from its central mass, shimmering in and out of existence in a slowly expanding radius. When the mist found a paralyzed werewolf, a crisscross pattern of small, thin wounds appeared where it touched the thick hide; this was immediately followed by a nauseating _thickening_ and strengthening of the tendril. Witherfang's white fur was slowly covering in faint, pinkish patches. Leliana glimpsed the Warden's face through the thickening red haze. She did not like what she saw on those familiar features: that faint, creeping hint of _otherness_. Struggling to keep her head cool, she aimed for Zathrian's heart.

"Wait!" Morrigan's hand felt cold like death on her arm; she had to fight the urge to recoil from the touch. The witch looked like she was about to vomit. Leliana shifted her stance so that she could kick the bitch down the stairs if needed. _When_ needed.

"What the hell do you want?" She had not intended for her voice to quiver, but a bard's art has its limits.

Morrigan suppressed a retch before she answered. "This is not Zathrian's spell," she said, pointing at the swirling mist. "Tis' the Warden's own magic, running amok on her."

Leliana wanted to laugh at the witch, to tell her that this was impossible, that Nyx would never allow her own magic to betray her. But denying the truth would only make things worst. She took a deep breath and lowered her bow.

"Can you do something about it?" she asked.

"My magic cannot reach her through this… thing, but I can provide some protection should _anyone_ be foolish enough to go wading through blood magic," Morrigan answered, accentuating the word "anyone" with an ironic smile. Leliana hated her with her guts.

"Should you be able to reach her, I suggest you give her a good, solid whack on the head", the witch continued with a little wicked smile, "You do know the difference between the head and buttocks, don't you?"

"Do it", Leliana said through clenched teeth.

* * *

Something disturbed the Spark of the dread god.

An instant earlier, there was only bliss. The Spark, the embryonic, semi-sentient precursor of Fen'Harel that lived caged in Nyx's body, reveled in the pleasant, unhurried flow of raw power flowing from the small, twitching balls of flesh. Power poured through the host's flesh, and the flesh was responding well, slowly remodeling itself into a more suitable garment. The elf's little clunky brain was duly isolated, stuck in a never-ending loop of ecstasy.

Now a minor irritant was pushing into the blood spell's periphery, struggling through the mist that fed the host's transformation. The irritant was coated in a thin, slippery layer of magic which faintly repulsed the blood tendrils as they sought to latch onto it. Buzzing angrily, the Spark directed the host to pierce through the weak charm and overwhelm the irritant's nervous system, rooting it in place. A short distance away, the caster reeled from the backlash: just another human, reeking of bitterness. The Spark was loath to stretch blood tendrils too far from the host. Instead, it sent a few of its quickly dwindling meat puppets after the mage. The tendrils proceeded to latch and feed on the fresh one, the young, healthy human female.

The host stirred feebly when the new quarry's essence started to flow in. The Spark gently prodded the pleasure center in the elf's brain, sending waves of ecstasy throughout her body. Various hormones and body fluids were released. Growth and ongoing adaptations were not compromised.

The host stirred again; this time there was an unpleasant surge in pulse and cerebral activity as the tiny body sought to fight the Spark's control. Growling, the Spark sent a current of pure, searing pain coursing through the elf's nerve endings. The host twitched and its agitation subsided. The Spark duly rewarded submission with a splash of endorphins.

Then the host's body went _berserk_. The Spark squealed in dismay as muscles twitched, nerves fired haphazardly and various glands churned out torrents of conflicting hormones. For every problem the Spark rushed to fix, two different biological processes fizzled out of control. Worse, the host's body started reverting to its imperfect, clunky state. The Spark's rudimentary mind was not meant to experience panic, but it was coming dangerously close.

"…Mine."

The Spark felt the Veil quaver madly as a current of thought, bitter and dangerously calm, issued from the Fade.

"Those are mine," said Nyx.

The Spark growled in challenge and moved to restrain its host's brain function.

Nyx's bitter laugh resonated through the Veil.

"I am in the Fade now, creature. You cannot reach me."

The Spark did not communicate with words, but the concept was obvious enough for its rudimentary intelligence to grasp. The host's soul was of no import; later on it would reintegrate the upgraded body and carry on with its meaningless existence, interspersed with increasingly frequent blood sacrifices, until it was ready for divinity. Losing interest, the Spark concentrated on its all-important duties: to feed, repair, and prepare the garment…

The Spark squealed in horror as the host's left hand burst into flames. The Spark frantically attempted to quench the magical flames, to no avail. All it could do was divert enormous amounts of power, to heal and replace the flesh even as it blistered, cooked, and peeled away.

"They are mine," repeated Nyx, "This body, and the human woman." The voice paused for a second, then the host's right hand caught fire. The Spark's frenzy reached new heights.

"Tell Fen'Harel that I will not submit. Tell him that I will burn through anything that gets in my way", Nyx's spirit-voice concluded before her whole body ignited.


	11. Chapter 11: Origins, revisited

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Origins, revisited.**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

Rated M because a tale involving Fen'Harel cannot be all sunshine and bunnies.

* * *

Agony.

Darkness.

Then the dreams start working their way through the pain and darkness. And that is marginally better.

Nyx dreams of her home in Highever, of the parents she will never know. Short, blurred flashes, visions of what was, or could have been.

The neat, tidy kitchen in the small house, the cracks in the walls covered in fresh plaster as soon as they show up. Mother never allows the misery of the alienage to seep in. There is always something wonderful cooking on the old cast-iron stove.

Father, sleek and nervous like a greyhound, his eyes shining like twin disks of silver as he receives visitors in the small, ill-lit dining room. The visitors come with ailments, and leave with bags of fragrant herbs and words of wisdom. Even the Chantry folks come sometimes: big, pompous humans, hiding under their cloaks lest respectable folks know they visit the little elf healer. Father makes faces after they depart and Nyx giggles.

The pain of the needles. Father works quickly and efficiently, Mother sings to her crying child. Nyx's face is tender and puffy for days, but the envy on other elf kids' faces is worth anything.

Lupa, made of rags and filled with sweet-scented herbs. After Father gives Nyx the blood-writing, Mother decorates Lupa's face with the same, swirling patterns. Lupa smiles happily.

The smell of books in her parents' room. Nyx reads everything she can get her hands on. Father's pride shines through even as he chides her for sneaking in and snatching a big, leather-bound Tevinter tome. The book deals with dragons. For months, Nyx will draw slithering beasts in the dust of the street.

The little brother, so serious in his crib, opens huge, silver-green eyes as Father introduces them with a few ritual words: "Nyx, meet Seth. He is your charge. Seth, this is Nyx; you owe her respect, for she is your elder in the pack". Something passes between the pale-skinned children, a bond never to be broken.

Father peers anxiously through the window, into the creeping night. Mother and little Seth have not come back today. Shadows move outside: tall, sinister figures, the armors glinting under the moon like pale scarabs.

The creak of stone as Father seals Nyx away in the small cellar. She clutches Lupa to her chest; red light and scorching heat sift through the crevices around the trapdoor. Later, city guards scavenging through the ashes hear the child's muffled screams and free her. Her world is gone.

* * *

The dream changes.

Nyx stands on a rocky mountaintop, Father by her side. The sight is breathtaking; the plains and forests of Thedas are laid out before her like a carpet of green velvet, the anthills of the cities teem with agitation. The sea glistens, calm and purple in the distance. Father turns to Nyx, his eyes sad in his thin, pale face. A great gust of wind rises as he speaks, and even though he stands right next to her, Nyx cannot understand his words. The wind turns into a gale, the gale into a hurricane, howling with the voices of tortured multitudes. Dark forms stir, rise from under the seas, burst from the earth like pus. Great pillars of blinding light descend from the sky to meet them. Nyx screams in agony as her flesh boils away and her bones scatter in the hurricane.

* * *

A flicker of light.

Voices; the healer's mind flowing through her body like a gentle, lukewarm river. And immediately, the healer's cry of pain and surprise as _something_ reacts to the intrusion. _He_ is here with her, _within_ her.

Not the Spark, this insignificant, brainless bug.

_Him_.

The dread god seizes Nyx's soul by the nap of her ethereal neck like a disobedient whelp and drags her through space and time, kicking and screaming, all the way back to the one place she will not face.

The walls of the orphanage close around her like jaws. The stone is a dull, pale grey, the color of rain-washed bones, complete with patches of black rot. Nyx walks down the long, narrow corridor and the thin, lice-ridden elven children who cross her path consciously avert their gaze. Not that they have anything against the tattooed, scrawny seven-year old newcomer; even in this forlorn place, the solidarity of the alienage stands true. But all the kids know where she is going. All the kids here, and probably half the adults, know what happens in Brother Ciacco's tidy study, when the sturdy oaken door is barred from the inside. But these things are not spoken of.

Everyone, always, closes their eyes.

So the kids who suddenly turn fearful and sullen are just being unruly. Those kids with the bruises and broken ribs, they just fell. The lay brother is a good administrator, and he has friends in the nobility. He also has an excellent track record of finding apprenticeship for _his_ children. The willful and the damaged usually end up apprenticed in the entertainment industry, by the docks of Denerim. With the proper attitude and a little luck, they can last a few years before the syphilis gets them.

Even as the sorceress struggles to break free of Wolf's grasp, seven year old Nyx walks to the big oaken door. Her tiny nostrils flare at the scent of bee wax on the well-tended wood panel. The knocker, polished brass in the shape of a hand, is just beyond the grasp of a scrawny elf kid, and she has to raise herself on the tips of her feet. The brass hand feels cold and sticky, and she is relieved to let it fall back with a loud bang. Lupa is clutched in her left hand; the smell of the aromatic herbs in the doll's belly feels familiar, soothing.

Brother Ciacco's voice, jovial as always, bids the visitor enter.

Brother Ciacco stands in front of his writing desk, a white quill in his hand. The swiftness with which he spins around belies his attempt at nonchalance. He has been waiting for his little visitor. He smiles and motions for Nyx to enter the room. His small, brown eyes shine in his puffy face as he appraises the orphan's emaciated figure. His eyes are as shiny, cold and dead as marbles. The sorceress screams a warning as the child takes a step forward.

Brother Ciacco draws the bolts on the oaken door, great iron things that smell of blood. He speaks soothingly to the child; her masters praise her intelligence and obedience to the rules. Such a talented pupil, he says, deserves his full attention.

A big, meaty hand reaches for the child's cheek. It takes a god's maw to hold the sorceress' spirit as she struggles to break free from His grasp, to flee and hide from the scene. Wolf will not allow it. She can sense His gigantic mass, vigilant, _waiting_. The sorceress watches as the child Nyx recoils from the man's touch; the hand reeks of rank skin, piss and other unpleasant, unfamiliar things. The hand follows, asserting its right to the child's face. Soon it will want more.

A flash of small, white teeth and Brother Ciacco lets out a little cry of pain and surprise. He throws a quick, angry backhand and the offender flies through the room. The child lands hard, blood from her split lip splatters the stone floor; the crimson stains are strange, vaguely familiar patterns in her blurred vision.

A few feet away, Lupa lies on the floor, her mother-of-pearl eyes serious in the little face. Lupa is Nyx's charge, just like Seth was. The child scrambles on her hands and knees to reach the doll.

Brother Ciacco, fumbling with his robes, sees her motion and immediately understands. Smiling, he picks up the small, filthy rag doll, holds it for the kid to see, and makes a demand. The elf shakes her head in incomprehension.

In the grip of the dread god, the sorceress' fear is quickly turning into bitter, biting _wrath_. Wrath at the man who threw her on a path of darkness and death. Wrath at the ancient god who took away the memories only to bring her back here, to this instant, the crucible of her existence. She fights the divinity with more might than she ever dreamt she could muster; yet, she is but an insect in Wolf's maw.

Brother Ciacco repeats his demand, gestures explicitly, threatens. When the child denies him again, he tears the doll in half. Amongst the rain of fragrant herbs and dried petals, something, small and shiny, lands on the floor with a clear, metallic sound.

The sorceress feels the titanic mass of the god rumble in satisfaction, and suddenly she is _let loose_. She flies, shrieking, ripping through the cobwebs of space, time and substance, into the disk of silver.

The elf child's eyes open very wide as she reaches for the object, the medallion engraved with swirling patterns and the stylized outline of a wolf's head. When her tiny fingers make contact with the cold, scintillating metal, another consciousness touches hers, and she is swept away.

* * *

They stand hand in hand amidst the circle of great, broken stones; the scrawny orphan and the bitter sorceress. All around, as far as the eye can see, are grey, wizened trees. It is a place that will never again know the warmth of the sun, or the cool touch of spring rains. A full, scarred moon bathes the scene in unforgiving light. Here they stand, at the call of the Master.

Wolf is before them. This time He has chosen to appear under the shape and size of an ordinary black wolf; not that the two mage-born could be fooled by the benign disguise. His sheer mass warps the substance of the Fade; the moonlight twists and dances around Him. Standing so close to the god, the sorceress feels a strange vertigo: like standing on the very brink of a precipice, wondering how long the fall will be, what the final _crunch_ will feel like.

Wolf speaks, without the hindrance of language, directly to the child and the sorceress' intermingled minds.

Showing paths.

Laying choices.

Making offers.

When the god is done, the child raises her head to the sorceress, a question in the small, silvery eyes. The sorceress clenches her teeth, very hard, and nods through the tears. There never was a choice.

"I'm sorry", she whispers as the child walks to the dread god and confidently lays a hand on the great, undulating mane. Wolf growls softly, irritated, or perchance pleased, at his new follower's insolence.

"Make him pay," the child says without turning her head as the sorceress walks away from the scene. Whatever form the devouring of the child's memories may take, Nyx is thankful Wolf does not make her sit through it.

* * *

Back to the orphanage, Brother Ciacco's balls are dangling revoltingly close to Nyx's face and she grimaces as she gets up, raising to her full height.

Her full, _adult_ height.

In a split second, the good brother's expression morphs from lustful grin to terrified incomprehension. He scrambles to cover his fast-shriveling junk.

"What? Who?"

Nyx interrupts him before he gets to "When?" and "How?"

"The name is Nyx," she says with a truly engaging smile, while she moves to cut him off from the door.

"But… you… she is a _child!_" Brother Ciacco seems to think that blubbering and offering the obvious will help. Good for him.

"I was a child," Nyx growls. The silver medallion shifts in her hand like a small, metal animal. She is not sure she wants to look at it. She moves closer to the human, cocking her head to stare into the terrified eyes. He too has been a child at some point. Fuck that. Now he is meat for the dread god. She slowly pushes forwards, her prey backing off until his back finds a wall.

"Now look what I have become," the sorceress whispers.

"Please." Is he begging? Of all men, _he_ should know better. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Please. Don't kill me."

"Oh, believe me, you will not die," Nyx whispers, savoring the look of incomprehension on her quarry's face for a second before she smashes the wriggling medallion onto it. The man doesn't even have the time to squeal: liquid silver rushes into his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth; he feels a sudden flash of pain as the cold metal bores through his skull and into his brain.

* * *

Deep in the Grey Forest, Brother Ciacco kneels at Nyx's feet, begging, sobbing. The sorceress stands still, lost in bitter thoughts. It appears even her rebellion, her bold move to escape from the Spark's hold, was but an act in Fen'Harel's farce. She cannot escape her destiny any more than the sniveling wreck at her feet or the unconscious, bruised child in the orphanage.

Nyx feels His coming long before His shadow swallows the forest: no benign disguise this time, just the presence, the power, the pride - and the stench, too. Bowing her head at last, she offers the sacrifice.

Brother Ciacco stops begging when he sees the twin moons of molten silver rise, high above the trees. The growl of the dread god shakes the very foundations of the Fade; the demons cringe as He lowers His maw for the feast. The screams and the great tearing sounds from the devoured soul echo through the dead woods for a long, long time. This time, Nyx watches through it all. When it is over, the picked bones are left to moan and beg. The dark, misshapen forms of the Fade's scavengers wait eagerly in the shadows of the trees.

As she leaves the Fade, plummeting through time and space, the god speaks to her mind a last time, in mental images as clear as words.

The Choice is done.


	12. Chapter 12: Six Green Dalish

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Six Green Dalish**

* * *

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

NB: Minor attempt at fluff here. It didn't come all that naturally but I tried to "flesh out" Nyx and Lel's relationship.

Slightly edited to try and clarify the problem w/ Nyx's hand.

* * *

As was often the case, Nyx's first impressions when she awoke were olfactory. The basic note, the one that set up the scene in her mindscape, was the intense, musty smell of old leather and paper; darker, lower notes of old wood supported the scent of books just like the huge shelves of the Tower's library bore the weight of the mages' accumulated wisdom. Floating, high and enticing, above the library backdrop, there came a familiar fragrance: a scent of lily, warm, translucent skin, cinnamon and a hint of freshly oiled leather; the royal, inimitable bouquet that could only belong to one being in the world. Nyx smiled as a familiar voice called to her.

"I can see that you're awake, you know. Your ears and nose have this way of twitching just before you open your eyes, just like a cat's- or a bunny's. And then I know that I have to hurry to be the first thing you see."

Playing along, the sorceress kept her eyes closed as she felt Leliana approach; the bard's breath, cool and fragrant, stopped just within reach of her mouth. Then Leliana's lips were on hers, a flurry of light, rapid kisses. Nyx reciprocated in more urgent, passionate fashion. Eyes still closed, Nyx reached for her lover's neck, propping herself up with her left hand.

The pain made her open her eyes all right, and she fell back onto the pillows with a surprised yelp. Looking at her left hand, all she saw was a mass of bandages.

"Maker's balls, it hurts!" the sorceress swore. Leliana's look of worry immediately dissipated Nyx's anger, and she quickly squeezed the bard's arm with her good hand. "The kiss was well worth it, though," she added softly. Leliana smiled, but she still seemed on the edge of tears.

"I'm sorry, I should not… I should have let you rest. Your wounds… your hand… you need to rest."

"Oh? What if I didn't want to rest?" The sorceress interrupted with a little wicked grin, "what if I actually wanted you to ravish me here and now?"

Leliana relaxed visibly, but the look of concern did not completely leave her eyes.

"Then I may have to knock you out for your own sake, of course. I am told I am pretty good at that," Leliana said, "but rest assured that I won't waste my _other_ skills on you unless you are in a condition to fully appreciate."

"Guess I will have to take your word on both counts", Nyx grumbled. She closed her eyes, recalling the disaster in the ruins. At some point, an apology, or at the very least an explanation was due, and she did not look forward to it.

"What happened to Zathrian and the Lady?" she finally asked, even though she already had a pretty good idea of the answer.

"Dead, both of them. Along with most of the werewolves." The bard did not seem too upset as she exposed the death count. "But it wasn't in vain," Leliana continued, a spark of excitement showing in her blue eyes, "When Zathrian and the Lady's blood mingled, the curse was broken. And when we left the ruins – half the forest is burnt down, by the way- we found the survivors, women and children mostly, all dirty and scared, but human! We had to convince the elves to take them in until they can move to human cities. I think the elves aren't too unhappy; even the kids seem to be decent hunters." Leliana stopped, a little out of breath.

"Sooo… you're not furious at me? About what happened in there?" Nyx remembered all too clearly tasting Leliana's life force through the red mist. The memory was horrible, sickening, yet strangely arousing, in a perverse sort of way.

"I _am_. You are the most reckless, stubborn, and outright crazy person I have ever met. By right you should be locked up in a tower, and _flogged _by Templars until you grow some common sense." Leliana's cheeks were flushed a light shade of pink by the outburst; her nostrils flared a little, and the clear, blue eyes were narrowed in a dangerous way. An image flashed through Nyx's mind, the bard standing over a still thrashing Hurlock on the old highway, her figure impossibly tall, deadly and gracious, her Chantry robes splattered in black blood. White teeth gleaming in a predator's smile, the veil of holiness dropped for a second. Back then Nyx was as blind to her own emotions as can be; now she understood how Leliana's anger spoke to the wild creature in her.

Leliana marked a pause, then continued in a softer tone.

"Whatever it was that you did, whatever that _thing_ was that had you trapped… I just know that even as I felt its touch, I also felt your presence, warm and comforting through the red mist. I remembered your promise: that I would never come to harm in your presence. And you held your promise. What you did to yourself… No one, ever, would have done that for me. So, yes, I am angry, and terrified that it could happen again, but above all I am proud and grateful for your love."

It was a long speech, even for a bard, and Nyx found herself blushing and fidgeting just like every time her lover expressed her feelings in her somewhat lyrical style. She wished humans could be content with feeling and doing, instead of all this _talking_. Andraste's sweet fig, if the words were not coming from those full, tasty lips of Leliana's, Nyx would have hexed the sweet-talker into silence; or maybe just burrowed into the ground, all the way through the Deep Roads and their darkspawn nests, until perchance she reached a sleeping Old God and whacked it on the nose just to forget her embarrassment.

"Yeah, well, since we are at it, I guess I should thank you for throwing yourself into Fen'Harel's spell", she groaned. Leliana winced a little at the name of the elven god. "Talking about reckless, that wasn't too bad either", Nyx continued with a smirk, "and that makes the both of us brave fools, although I still take the prize for starting it all. But I don't think it will happen again. I lost control, I screwed up, but I won't be so easily caught next time. I… promise you, for what it's worth."

It was a bold promise to make, and they both knew it. Nyx did not want to elaborate on her recent dreams, visions, whatever they were. There may be time later, but not now, not while the memories were fresh. Then a thought crossed her mind: apart from the pain in her hand, she felt pretty good for someone who just set herself on fire. Astonishingly so, in fact…

"How long did I sleep?"

"Two days. Lanaya and I have been taking care of you. Well, mostly me, since you gave Lanaya a bad… jolt when she tried to heal you. She tries to keep her distances, now, but she gave me potions and poultices for you," Leliana explained. Lanaya, Nyx remembered vaguely, was something like an apprentice to Zathrian, the Keeper she was trying to submit to her will before her little "accident". That explained why she was now sitting in what she guessed was Zathrian's bed, surrounded by his personal library. The thought of the books made her pulse run faster. Something was amiss, though…

"Then who healed me? Morrigan?" she asked, knowing that the witch was about as talented for healing as herself: a disaster waiting to happen.

"No one did." Leliana's expression grew even stranger, and Nyx could have sworn that there was more than worry in her countenance. _Fear? Excitation? A mix of both?_

"When we brought you back from the ruins…" Leliana marked a pause, visibly upset at the memory, struggling to get a hold of herself. "Your burns were very bad. I… didn't think you would survive. Your face…" Leliana's voice quavered and she had to fight back tears to continue. "It was _gone_. The burns were all over you. It was horrible. But you clung to life, like only you can. We put bandages all over you, ointments, then Lanaya tried healing magic and you hurt her. I stayed with you all these hours, afraid to leave you even for a moment, and by the second morning I saw that your skin was growing back… everything healed within hours, except your poor hand…"

_I healed myself? What the..?_ Nyx let the information sink in, trying to grasp its significance. She had never heard of an unconscious mage bringing himself back from the edge of death, nor of a burn victim healing in hours. On a sudden impulse, she threw off the bed sheets. She was naked underneath, and a summary self-examination revealed only skin that appeared as fresh and new as a baby's butt. She raised her un-bandaged hand to her face, her fingers meeting only smooth, perfectly healthy tissue. Her hair and eyebrows were gone, though, the smoothness now extending all the way to the top of her head. There ought to be at least _some_ scar tissue; magic healing worked within the limits of the body's self-reparation mechanisms, it did not perform miracles…

Nyx clawed at the bandages on her left hand. The white strips of cloth came away easily enough, and she winced as their contents were revealed. _Fen'Harel, you cheeky son of a bitch_, she thought in shock. The wizened, dried up _claw_, its crinkled skin barely covering the bones, should never have been capable of motion. Yet, the fingers hardly felt stiff as Nyx curled and uncurled them, fascinated by the dead flesh's movement. Each motion was rewarded with searing pain, as though some unseen fire was re-kindled. Thin, almost imperceptible silver lines ran across the brownish skin in complicated arabesques. It appeared that the Dread Wolf's miraculous healing job had been intentionally left unfinished, no doubt as a punishment for her rebellion. The warning was not exactly an exercise in subtlety... Yet the very fact of her being alive, fully aware and relatively intact proved that the god needed her, at least for a while. Deep within the sorceress, the stubborn little flame of hope told her that this was a good thing.

Nyx strived to put back the bandages, wincing at the pain that the slightest contact elicited in the wizened flesh. Leliana sat on the bed by her side and gently took the bandages from her hand.

"Allow me. I've had plenty of practice these two days", Leliana said cheerfully, "I'm sure with a little more unguent I can get your hand better…"

"For a bard, you are an atrocious liar", Nyx chided gently. Still, she was only too happy to let herself be pampered, and the bard's proximity was… most invigorating. She actually needed the warmth, too, sitting naked in the ill-heated chariot. Throwing the bed sheets all over the place was a _bad_ idea. "You know", she added ruefully, "things could be worse. I appear to be intact in all the right places."

"I am…_very_ aware of this, believe me." Leliana finished tying the bandages, noticed the goose bumps on the elf's skin and deftly wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. "How about we both have some rest today, and tomorrow we give you a thorough examination, yes?"

"Fine, I'll let you sleep." Considering the bard's puffy eyes, Nyx could understand her demand. "But aren't you going to stay with me at least?"

Leliana smiled. "I have a few things to take care of, but I'll be back in a while. I'll sleep on my bedroll, though. Those elven beds are too small for the both of us to sleep comfortably." The bard moved swiftly towards the door, cutting short all arguments, and Nyx found herself alone with a bunch of unanswered questions. On the plus side, she was now alone in Zathrian's little mobile library… Clutching her blankets, the sorceress jumped off the bed with a greedy smile, and started her inventory of the Keeper's books. Within minutes, the Blight, Fen'Harel and even the pain in her hand were all but forgotten as she happily set sail on an ocean of knowledge.

There were hundreds of books, tightly crammed in the tiny interior of the chariot so that moving about was a careful, complicated affair. Even for a fast reader, it would take months, maybe years to fully explore the contents of all those ancient, musty volumes. Nyx knew she had days at best, so she regretfully skimmed through the books, choosing in priority the oldest-looking Tevinter tomes. For once, she was thankful for the Tower's training: all mages were taught how to quickly sift through huge amounts of information. And in this, as in many things, Nyx was a remarkably gifted student, although she really preferred to take her time and squeeze every drop of knowledge out of her readings. Now she went through the leather-bound tomes with the speed and voracity of a hungry animal, unceremoniously dropping the venerable books to the floor as she discarded them. Soon the interior of the aravel looked like the eye of a paper storm.

She hardly noticed Leliana coming back to check on her; she just absently grumbled something along the lines of "not sleepy thank you". She kept browsing throughout most of the night, only allowing herself to crawl into Zathrian's bed after she repeatedly nosedived onto a priceless Tevinter manuscript, her nose leaving little smudges on the venerable parchment.

* * *

Early in the morning, she was awoken by the touch of silken skin sliding under the sheets; Leliana's scent was a thing of glory as the bard's breasts pressed against hers. This time, Nyx did not play sleeping beauty: she felt nothing short of _ravenous_. All along their lovemaking Leliana's heartbeat thundered in the sorceress' mind like a great hunting drum, faster, harder, culminating in booming, throbbing frenzy when Nyx's fingers brought her release; slower, then faster again, the sweet and savage melody repeated itself until it finally faded into the slow, regular rhythm of appeasement.

When all was said and done – it took a bit of time to fully satisfy the convalescent elf- Leliana retrieved a small bundle, wrapped in rough green cloth, from the bedside table.

"This is for you. I thought you might need to replace those burnt robes of yours, and this is not a bad place for an elf to do some shopping."

Nyx's nose twitched once as she examined the parcel. The smell of oiled leather filled her nostrils. Grinning widely, she spread the parcel's contents onto the bed: an elf-sized suit of armor made of thin, dark grey leather, complete with trousers and gauntlets. The skin, embossed with twisting vine patterns, felt incredibly light and supple. The left glove had visibly been modified, with fingers of soft grey silk added to the mitten.

"Really, Lel, how did you know?" The sorceress beamed with childlike excitement, pressing the leather shirt to her small breasts. Leliana almost expected her to bounce around like Runt at dinner time.

"Let me think… Well, to start with, you have been tripping and grumbling about your robes for about as long as I have known you. I always wondered why you didn't get rid of them anyway. They did manage to be both ugly and impractical, ugh." The bard grimaced.

"Because I have never owned anything else. The Circle did not permit it." Nyx' voice came muffled as she struggled to put on the leather tunic. "Come to think of it, the Templars probably want to make sure that mages can't run too fast." Nyx's head, looking very small and oddly round without hair, emerged from the garment at last. Her pointed ears looked _immense_. Leliana was relieved to notice that a blue shadow was starting to show on the little elf's scalp. She only moderately enjoyed her lover's boyish new look. Nyx was now trying to figure out how to buckle the trousers, and Leliana helped her, smiling at her impatience. The armor fit like a second skin.

"Thanks." The elf's expression turned oddly serious. "I mean it. This…" She patted the leather shirt to emphasize her point, "this is the first set of clothes that was not _issued_ to me by the assholes at the Tower. That it comes from you… huh… I guess what I want to say is, it means a crapload to me."

"My, aren't you the sweet talker today. But you're welcome. And it does look good on you, although… a little snug, maybe? That is weird; I expected it to be quite loose…" Leliana's voice trailed a little as she thought about the implications. "Can you stand next to me for a while?"

"Huh? Sure", Nyx answered distractedly as she tried to slip her wizened hand into the leather and silk glove without eliciting too much pain. Losing patience, she just shoved the darned thing into the glove and stood, grimacing with pain.

"Maker's breath..." The bard was right in front of Nyx, lightly wrapped in a bed sheet. There was something funny in the way she stood; she must have been hunched over a little, because her chin was almost level with the sorceress' eyes. Nyx looked up just in time to catch the look of bewilderment on her face.

"I think you have grown an inch or so", Leliana whispered in disbelief.

* * *

As they moved around the Dalish camp in search of newly promoted Keeper Lanaya, Leliana's keen eyes started noticing other, minute differences in the Warden.

The first was a nigh-imperceptible hardening, or _sharpening_, in the elf's features, most visible in the sharper outline of the jaw, chin and cheekbone. It was as though the traces of childhood's softness had been erased from her face. Nyx must have been around nineteen – her actual date of birth was a mystery to her- several years the bard's junior. Leliana did not much like thinking about their age difference. As always, the uneasy reflection was followed by the even more depressing reminder that Nyx would _not_ live long into her graying years anyway, that the taint would devour the Grey Warden even if she managed to somewhat cheat the Blight and the _other_. And as always, Leliana reached for the small, round Andrastian medallion around her neck. Faith was an astounding thing; it allowed her to come to terms with her fear of death. Some day, faith might even allow her to no longer feel so terrified when she envisaged the death of her loved one.

Some day. Maybe. Or it could be that faith has its limits.

They reached the new Keeper's aravel, deftly weaving through the complicated webs of ropes that anchored the sails-turned-tent. Nyx gracefully hopped onto the chariot's raised platform, skipping the three wooden steps altogether. Leliana's jaw dropped a little.

The conversation with Lanaya went well enough, in spite of the young Keeper's obvious unease at being within arm's length of the sorceress. Leliana remembered Nyx trying to describe how she perceived other mages, like ripples or swirls on the Veil's invisible medium. She wondered how the elven Keeper saw her sweet Warden. By the look on the young Keeper's face, the answer was none too pleasant.

After the outlines of the Dalish war effort were agreed, they took leave of the Keeper and just strolled around the camp, watching the elves go about their daily lives. Now that the werewolf menace was gone, the camp gave off a gentle, peaceful feeling. Leliana noticed how the elves moved and worked purposefully, but more slowly than humans would, each gesture precise, deliberate. Here it was not so difficult to believe the old tales of Arlathan, of the near-immortal elves who lived lives of contemplation while the ages of the world blinked around them. Leliana felt drawn to this place, to the calm, repetitive satisfaction of manual labor and natural cycles.

"Bunch of delusional fools." Nyx's voice, low and raspy, cut clean through the bard's reverie. "They think they can hold the world at arm's length and live in a museum. And they will blame others when the world comes back and bites them in the ass."

Leliana turned to her lover, astonished at the bitterness in her voice.

"I thought you would be happy to be with your people? I remember you telling me how you planned on running from the Tower to seek shelter with the Dalish."

"They are _not_ my people, Lel". Nyx shook her head; spite and bitterness rang in her voice. "I had to come here to see it. My ancestors were the first great civilization of Thedas. They were peerless builders, smiths, scholars, sorcerers; hell, they probably taught humans not to wipe their ass with their tongue. Those… living fossils… they cry on their glorious past, but when was the last time they invented something? Created something? Their vision for the elves' future is to sit on our butts until the world is consumed and Fen'Harel comes to devour the last souls."

"You don't think it is important for them to try and recover their culture?" Leliana was a little flustered at the elf's blatant disrespect for her kinsfolk.

The big, silvery pupils sparkled with irony.

"Here is a story for you, my bard. Little me and little Dalish want to cross a river; by the river they find two beautiful marble statues of the elven gods, pick your favorites. Little Dalish says: I shall save you, statue! He lifts the statue high above his head, and proceeds to cross the river. Little me throws the statue into the river, and uses it as a stepping stone to cross. Who is going to drown, and who is going to piss on his watery grave?"

Leliana could not help laughing. "This is not a story, it's a riddle", she remarked; grabbing the smaller Warden's shoulder affectionately. "I'm sorry", she said lower, "you must be awfully disappointed."

"In a sense, yes. But I'm kind of used to _not_ fitting in. Can't say it ever bothered me. Hey, you want to see a green Dalish?"

"A what? Humph!" Leliana's question turned into a muffled protest as the elf jumped with catlike speed, small arms and legs wrapping themselves around her in a blink, pale lips pressing on her own. Leliana barely caught her balance, hesitated, then returned the kiss. A few seconds later Nyx jumped back to the grassy floor, spinning around as she did, counting on her fingers, grinning mischievously.

"Three… Four… Five… Six green Dalish! Not so bad for a little peck!"


	13. Chapter 13: Dancing with the Dragon

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Dancing with the dragon**

* * *

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

It took Nyx three nights and days to sift through Zathrian's library, and even so, she often caught herself swearing out loud at the prodigious wealth of knowledge she discarded. But the near-constant rumbling and shrieking of the Archdemon in the depth of the earth was reminder enough that her time was running short. In the end, she narrowed her research to only three black-bound Tevinter tomes, strangely forbidding and protected from decay by ancient wards. Those she would study at length, pondering over the subtle meanings hidden in the meandering, guttural tongue of the Imperium.

The first volume was a comprehensive treatise about blood magic; written by a long-forgotten scholar at the intention of Tevinter apprentices, it dealt mainly with the strict physical discipline and meditative techniques required by the study of blood magic. Skimming through the contents, Nyx was surprised to realize that ancient blood mages were, by need, athletes as much as scholars; a humbling thought for the Tower mages who often found it difficult to climb the flight of stairs between the mess hall and their quarters.

The second tome appeared to be the personal journal of Boreas, a powerful personage, maybe a magister, in the glory days of the Imperium. The man, if his increasingly rambling writings were to be believed, had lived well over three centuries, and judging by the way his journal was brutally interrupted and the dark stains on the last pages, did not pass away from old age. Diagrams and formulas described, in great detail, various methods and experiments in life preservation and prolongation. The dead mage swore by a particularly gruesome ritual, referred to as the Blood Ruby, by which he created a permanent parasitic bond with a young, healthy slave, effectively living on borrowed time. The last entries in Boreas' journal were but a collection of incoherent dribble about how a "soulless she-demon from the South" was stalking him and planned to feast on his immortal essence.

The third book was a collection of official accounts of the wars of the Imperium against various barbarian tribes, more specifically the suppression of sporadic pockets of Elven insurrection spanning many, many centuries after the Fall of Arlathan. The anthology appeared to have been pieced together by a scholar with a particular interest in elven lore and legend. One passage in particular attracted Nyx's attention, an account by a young Tevinter sorcerer and general named Octavius Latius II. Transcribed in common Fereldan, the passage read as follows:

"_And in the thirteenth day after being warned by the slaves' indiscretion, we did come upon the great altar in the forest they name the Simmering Wood; it is henceforth to be named the Octavian Forest, for our soldiers won a bold victory for the Glorious Imperium, and swiftly smote the undomesticated elves into oblivion, though they were many and fierce like animals. _

_Thus the name of my House shall be forever attached to the place, as is right and proper. _

_In the end only one impious elf stood by the altar, naked and howling like a wild beast, but commanding wicked Arts of a most frightening nature. Good Tevinter soldiers fell by the dozen before the Wicked One, and poor Flavius of the golden locks, and Donatius who so liked to jest, and fearsome Petrus who commanded the dead. Alas, great Warriors and mighty Sorcerers they were all; no more will plump Minrathous girls greet them home with crowns of fragrant flowers, but only the cold embrace of the grave. _

_But at last the Wicked One was betrayed by his own rage, and I smote his spirit and cast him down the altar; though it cost me the essence of six good slaves, and a great deal of my own. And in chains of forged Lyrium we bound him, which ate at his flesh and soul as is just and proper, to be taken to Glorious Minrathous as part of the Triumph I shall dedicate to Magister Selenius. And to my surprise, some of the slaves stepped forward, and begged that the Wicked One be put down instead of held as a trophy. We laughed, and flogged the wily beasts for their insolence._

_As I retired under my tent and restored my spent forces with the essence of a young slave, I had the wicked savage brought before me, that he could be questioned about his strange beliefs and impious Arts. The beast is quite a sight, very big for an elf and covered in wicked runes, and I confess I had the guards check his chains anew before he was let in. To my surprise he showed an understanding of the Proper Tongue, and talked readily enough, even afore I used the threat of physical harm. But such are the ways of those cowardly beasts: pride is forever lost on their race. In truth, it is a testimony to our Glorious Imperium's genius that elves can be bred to make decent servants at all._

_The savage told me that he is a priest of the one they call Fei-hei-lel, or some name similar; the slaves' dialect is coarse and ill-suited to proper citizens of the Imperium. His god is a great Wolf, as black as the night and as tall as the mountains, and roams the Beyond preying on the stray souls of men and demons. The god does not answer prayers and laughs at supplicants; indeed he assists only the strong and the cunning, and even then his gifts are treacherous. I laughed, and asked him why one would worship such a feral beast. The savage looked at me without fear and told me that his god was the only reason the Imperium, the forests and all the living beings exist. His priests offer the Wolf sacrifices of blood and souls, and allow him to possess their bodies, so that his hunger is satisfied and he remains in the Beyond. For the wild priests say that when the Wolf breaks his bonds and roams the land again, he shall devour men and gods alike, and none shall be spared._

_I mocked the savage, railing that the Blessed Dragons would soon roast his jackal of a master, just like I shattered his wild magic. The beast nodded, and bowed in a manner that would have been almost proper, but for the most insolent smirk on his face. I had him flogged, and thought of doing away with him altogether; for I do not care for impertinence in the vanquished. But he is a rare curiosity, and I reserve him as a gift for Magister Selenius. What my revered mentor shall do with this insolent tongue of his, I cannot conjecture; but the study of ancient lore is a delight for the old man, may the Dragons bless his blood."_

Octavius' report ended here, but a nervous hand had scribbled notes in low Tevinter in the margins. The ink was faded, but the script and language suggested several centuries separated the note from the original:

"_Octavius' caravan reported in duty and excise records. Mention of the savage, valued at two ounces of gold."_

"_Finally found Selenius' diary; most enlightening. To be compared with secret practices among slaves; indeed the poison spread early through the Imperium. Selenius was a fool. Fen'Harel? The Devourer can walk the earth in elven form; what of humans? What of the other gods? Sealed away or consumed? Both?"_

The last note, great, bold strokes of the quill, was in modern Orlesian; the ink looked surprisingly new, suggesting that Zathrian only acquired the book in the last few decades.

"_Guillaume was right! First Selenius' notes, then this. It is not a myth. Also a reference to the war in Vasquez's Cult of the Were. The Light Bearers are insane! I must warn the Chantry. Andraste help us all." _

* * *

The tip of Nyx's pink tongue pointed slightly out of her mouth, a sign of utter concentration in the elf as she read the notes for the hundredth time, the names dancing in her mind like cheeky goblins. Vasquez, Selenius, the Light Bearers. _An Antivan, an old Tevinter, and a guild of Orlesian candle-lighters?_ Try as she might, Nyx did not remember finding any mention of those names during her long readings in the Tower's seniors' library. Then again, the Circle was not supposed to collect knowledge of devious cults and heathen gods. Most likely the forbidden volumes would have been either destroyed in the Chantry's periodical auto-da-fe, or sealed away in some influent family's private collection. Hedge mages might have copies; but hedge mages were by essence a discreet, slippery bunch. Her best bet at the moment was still _Irving_. It irked the sorceress' to no end, but she would yet have to ask her old mentor for a favor. Knowing that the man owed her his life and soul barely soothed her injured pride. Well, _screw pride_. Nyx knew that she would gladly bend over for the old geezer if that could only give her some leads, some hope to escape Fen'Harel's clutches. She consciously clenched her gloved hand into a fist, letting the searing pain remind her of the god's blessings.

It was becoming a ritual, that forceful clenching of the dead fist; it helped her focus her rage onto her objectives, her enemies, the ones who would deny her. She focused her mind on the savage images: the Archdemon, ribs and wings ripped apart in a torrent of black blood; Fen'Harel himself, black fur and red flesh peeling away from the bones of steel as the beast howled in pain. Dark and bitter power flooded her veins, the poisonous taint in her blood somewhat reacting to her hatred.

Morrigan paused on the wooden platform of the aravel. The human witch did not perceive magic the way an elf would, as a literal sensory experience. Nevertheless, Morrigan's perception was keen, and fine-tuned by years of training at the hands of an undying master. She felt Nyx's surge of power as a shadow on her mind, akin to the vague, ominous feeling non-mages can sometimes experience just before a storm breaks out. She was aware that Nyx's power had grown in almost ridiculous proportions since they first met in the Wilds, and now vastly overshadowed her own. But Morrigan knew better than to envy or to fear. She knew that such power has a price, and she suspected that the elf had only recently started to realize just how painful the payment would be. Morrigan could relate, in a way.

The ominous feeling receded. The door opened silently and Morrigan stepped into the cluttered chariot, her feet treading unceremoniously on precious, discarded books.

"Morrigan." The elf's gloved hand caressed a black-bound tome on the writing desk before her. She looked even paler than usual, and small beads of sweat glistened on her brow.

Greetings were one of those superfluous, hypocritical customs that irritated Morrigan to no end. Crossing her arms, she simply cut to the chase.

"I have a… demand to make of you, Warden. On a most disturbing matter. Do you remember Flemeth's grimoire?"

"The one in which the old bat explains how she feeds on her daughters? Yes, I remember it. And yes, it _is_ sort of disturbing." The sorceress's tone was businesslike, as though they were discussing some minor academic point.

"You _read_ it?" Morrigan almost choked on the words, then inhaled deeply. She absolutely refused to show the other mage any sign of weakness. When she spoke again, her voice was as self-assured and haughty as ever. "Did you intend to discuss your findings with me, perhaps?"

"I assumed you would raise the subject yourself. In fact I expected you to do so a long time ago. Did it really take you that long to break Flemeth's cipher?" Nyx asked with a hint of disdain. Her gloved hand kept playing with the book, the dead fingers moving in rhythmic fashion. She could almost control the pain now; maybe use it to her advantage. Her silver eyes shone very bright in the gloom of the chariot. "Anyway… What do you want to do about it?" she asked in a softer tone.

"What would you have me do? Sit around like an empty vessel, waiting to be filled?" The elf was sorely testing Morrigan's patience, but she was less stupid than her little romance with the Orlesian would lead one to believe. "Flemeth must die. And I cannot be the one to do it. Will you help me, Warden?"

"_Shapechanging_. I don't understand it. I need the skill," the sorceress said matter-of-factly.

Morrigan balked at Nyx's arrogance. "I will not be blackmailed into teaching you _anything_!" She exclaimed.

"Cute. But you're missing the point entirely." Nyx was enjoying herself immensely. "The Wilds are a long way from here, and we need to be in Denerim for Eamon's Landsmeet soon. There is no way I can make it there and back in time… Short of flying."

"Short of flying…" Morrigan repeated, the idea working its way through her mind. She shook her head. "But you would have to get there alone, without any support. That doesn't sound like a good idea."

Nyx frowned. "Confronting Flemeth is _not_ a good idea. By your own account, sending warriors against her is hardly a good idea…" She took a deep breath and started counting on the fingers of her good hand. "Prince Charming is too important to risk. Sten will stab me in the back if I make him backtrack to the Wilds. And I will not risk Leliana's life to save _your_ hide. That would leave me with an assassin, a dwarf and a dog, hardly an army by anyone's standards. Helping you is the shittiest idea I have had since… since I set myself on fire I guess. But I'm strange like that."

"But… it would take weeks for you to learn a shape, to study the animal, its structure, its habits…"

Nyx grinned. "Try me", she said.

* * *

Nyx watched for hours as Morrigan demonstrated the spell in a little clearing, a short way from the Dalish camp. She almost entirely discarded any information of a mystical or theoretical nature, focusing instead on Morrigan's description of the required state of mind. The threads and swirls of magic enveloped Morrigan's body, destroyed it and built it anew to create the desired shape, then pulled it apart to reveal the witch's form again. How marvelously absurd, Nyx pondered, that magic of such magnitude, the very alteration of reality that was sought by all mages, was now lost to all but a handful of hedge mages and smelly shamans. Thank the Chantry for all its blessings.

"…These are the basics of the transformation," Morrigan concluded, dizzy and out of breath after turning into a spider and back to human form a dozen times. "But they will be of no use to you until you learn an animal's shape and…"

"I _know_, Morrigan. You said that a dozen times." Nyx was starting to grow weary of the witch's patronizing. She raised her eyes to the cloudy skies. A few swallows could be seen here and there; higher in the grey sky, a small bird of prey, maybe a falcon, drifted slowly, cruising the aerial currents. Drawing her dagger, Nyx lightly pricked her forearm. A single, tiny pearl of blood oozed from the small wound and rose like a miniature balloon, drifting ever higher, toward the bird and its immobile wings.

The blood pearl reached the falcon, seeped between the soft, light felt of its belly, wormed its way through the skin and flesh and instantly spread through blood vessels, conquering, cajoling… watching. Then Nyx starting sending orders through the faint, shimmering cordon of blood and magic that linked her to the small animal: _fly, fall, fly again; up, down, here, there; faster, slower; veer, dive; swallow, shit, scream_. She watched every motion start with wonderfully complex impulses in the beast's tiny brains, progress through the great torrent of the spine and branch out into thousands of tiny streams through the wings, the legs, the powerful muscles under the feathered skin. With each motion, her connection to the small predator grew more intimate, until in the end _she_ was spreading her wings high in the sky, watching Morrigan's bored expression and her own, silly grin. And yet there was so much more to learn: how to hunt, how to attract mates, which predators to avoid and where to find shelter in the cold season… That would all have to wait.

Maintaining blood control over the creature for several minutes was exhausting, and Nyx reluctantly freed the animal and returned her consciousness to her own body. Draping herself in shimmering energies, she let her mind's hands do the remodeling. The sensation was alien and absolutely horrible; the process involved a _dissolution_ which oddly reminded her of decomposing carcasses.

* * *

The falcon was suspended in the air, her powerful wings beating effortlessly as the world rushed under her. The forests and meadows were but fleeting patches of green in an abstract tapestry; yet her falcon's eyes could make out the smallest details: a mouse foraging in a raspberry bush; the seeds that a farmer sowed in his field; the hungry sparrows waiting in the shelter of the hedge; the farmer's wife's pretty breasts, swaying as she moaned under another man, not so far away. The land rolled on like an ocean of green until it reached the great, blue shadows where the mountains melted with the grey ceiling of the clouds. It was a glorious and peaceful spectacle. Or it should have been.

In every direction, the falcon's keen eyes could make out the small, dark blotches of the Blight. And they were spreading like wildfires.

Lothering was but a pile of cold ashes, the bones of the laggards and the careless glistening on the blackened earth.

Twisted imitations of the human shape trudged through the green forests, trapping and killing their denizens. In places the very earth was split open, giving out noxious fumes that filled beasts and men with murderous despair. Isolated farmhouses smoldered in the distance; the farmers and their families were butchered and laid on their murderers' campfires. Drooling beasts poked their flesh with sticks to assess the cooking.

The falcon veered with an angry cry to circle the torched ruins of Ostagar. Here the destruction was old; twisted, black vines grew over the gnawed bones of the King's army. Bleached skulls, their crowns long crushed open by the darkspawn to access the nutritious contents, grimaced amongst the vines. The falcon vaguely wondered which one was Duncan's.

It took the falcon a while to find Flemeth's hut; the place was very well hidden, even for a bird of prey's eyes. She landed on the spongy ground with a little thud and a few ruffled feathers, pausing very shortly to remember her own form and name. Elf! She was an elf called Nyx! The memory unleashed a torrent of magic, overwhelming the… elf… briefly.

* * *

Nyx found herself staring straight at Flemeth's brown robes and wondering if the whole trip was a good idea after all.

"Oh my, a bald elf! Poor, lovely Morrigan: only the pixies will dance to her tune," Flemeth quipped.

"Will they? I was wondering if _you_ didn't lure me here for a dance", Nyx snapped. _Pixie? What the…?_

"Did I? I wonder, too... Why would old Flemeth wish to cavort with feisty elves?"

Nyx frowned. Discussing with Flemeth was… frustrating at best. "I was referring to my rather fortuitous discovery of your grimoire," she explained.

"Ah, the grimoire. What did sweet Morrigan tell you, I wonder. Do you believe…"

"Spare me the protests. I read the thing," Nyx interrupted. Flemeth looked unfazed. If anything, she looked even more shriveled and inexpressive than she had months ago, when she put her precious daughter in the Wardens' care . Slowly, carefully, Nyx started to study the ancient witch in her mind's eye.

"Maker's balls…" she sighed. It all started to make sense: the fortuitous presence of the manuscript in Irving's study; the fact that the ritual described in its yellowed pages was inherently _flawed_, a subtle forgery that only a blood mage had a chance to detect. Nyx knew how wary of blood magic Morrigan was. And now this… _husk_. The dried up, wizened shell of a woman, no longer radiating power like she did when Nyx first met her. Thin threads of magic, pulsating with a sickly yellowish glow, branched from the witch and disappeared through the Veil, connecting the barely living body with _something_. Something that she vaguely glimpsed through the Veil, sprawled on the other side; something powerful, _immense_. Nyx could not conjecture if the thing that was Flemeth's true essence was a god, a demon or the result of centuries of patiently accumulated power. Nyx could not care less; panic swept over her like a foul wind.

Back to her flesh eyes now. The abomination's dry lips parted to reveal yellow teeth in a parody of Flemeth's smile.

"You see much, little pixie. But try as you may, you will not change the tune to which we must all dance. It is old music, yes, but don't they say, _the older the merrier_? No? Bah!" The thing took a step forward, cackling, and Nyx found herself backing off slowly, her mind racing to find spells that might sever the husk's connection to the Fade before the _real _Flemeth's power could be brought to bear on her.

"All right then, I think I'll be leaving now," she squeaked. Barring her ethereal encounters with Fen'Harel, she had never come that close to pissing her pants. Well, there _was_ that time at Marjolaine's, but she had only pissed her robes because she got squashed like a lemon.

"Ah, but you owe Flemeth a dance, child." The abomination chuckled. The thing clapped its hands merrily and, with an entrechat, _shapeshifted_.

* * *

The falcon was way past terror. The bird's powerful muscles literally swam in adrenaline and lactic acid, her tiny heart threatened to burst with exhaustion, her lungs felt like they were filled with ground glass, and her mind was all but gone. Yet, she felt strangely happy, filled with an exhilaration that was part adrenaline high, and part the sheer intoxication of flight. And fly she did. She flew through the Wilds like an Eastern storm, risking life and limb through a maze of trees, and with good reason.

Close, much too close behind her tail feathers, the high dragon's deafening roar shook the earth, freezing the Wilds' denizens in terror. The falcon felt a gust of searing air as the dragon spewed forth a plume of fire, the flames pushed back onto its great, scaly maw by the very speed of its flight. The falcon let out a shrill challenge and veered sharply, very nearly breaking her neck on a venerable oak's mossy trunk. A second later, the maneuver was rewarded with a thunder of splintered wood as the great beast failed to adjust its course in time and crashed into the tree. An outraged roar and the sound of furiously flapping leather wings informed the falcon that it would take more, much more to discourage her pursuer. Still, she had gained precious seconds.

The fast-flying shadows of the trees suddenly gave way to a vast expanse of open land, and the falcon knew it had almost reached its goal. The marshland grass below her wings turned yellow and sickly as she sped towards the center of the corruption, the gaping cracks and rifts that led down into the darkness of the Deep Roads. Before her, rushing by the thousands to meet her, were the crude tents and stinking fires of the darkspawn horde.

With her falcon's eyes she noticed how the creatures' deformed heads turned in almost perfect synchronicity as the taint in her blood called to them; the horde rippled at her approach like a lake of black oil. Virulent hatred washed over her as she bolted towards the darkspawn; and the dragon came behind her.

Squeals and grunts of alarm greeted the fiery beast's appearance; the darkspawn's muddled brains struggling to associate the venerated form of the dragon with the hateful threat they sensed rushing their way. With a shrill call that was a laugh at her own insanity, the falcon dived among the armored, misshapen creatures, weaving a sinuous path through the horde. And the dragon followed; whether or not the beast was indeed Flemeth, the fever of the hunt made it all but oblivious to danger.

Chaos ensued.

Steel-tipped arrows and javelins flew by the hundreds, a few finding their way through the dragon's thick scales; most fell back onto the frenzied horde, punching through armor and corrupted flesh alike. The very wind from the dragon's wings scattered the creatures in its path, sending screaming darkspawn flying through the air as the dragon cut a track of fire and blood through the horde. Its scaly hide was soon pierced and bled in dozens of places; great, ripped gashes showed in the leather wings; and still the beast kept chasing its prey with deadly focus. The falcon started to panic as the horde's frenzy grew and arrows grazed her feathers. In a last, wing-shattering effort, she picked up speed and altitude, briefly surveyed the battlefield at the apex of her flight, gathered her wings around herself and barreled mere inches past the dragon's snapping maw, plunging towards the ground and the gaping darkness of the Deep Roads.

* * *

"For the last time, Morrigan, where is she? What did you do with Nyx?"

Leliana's blue eyes were cold as daggers as she stared at Morrigan, and the witch felt uncharacteristically isolated and vulnerable. Not that the redhead was much of a threat by herself, fast and deadly though she may be; the problem was that she was _not_ by herself. Behind Leliana's shoulder in the nightfall gloom, Morrigan could make out the huge shadow of the Sten, his massive arms crossed in unspoken menace. Further to the left, Oghren was leaning on his axe with an inebriated frown. Next to him, Alistair shifted his weight nervously from one leg to the other, looking embarrassed. And something told her that had she eyes behind her head, she may well have made out Zevran's silhouette in the shadow of the aravel, his bronzed, elegant hands caressing hidden daggers.

Morrigan absently wondered if it was loyalty to the Warden that motivated them; or was it all a result of the bard's skillful manipulations. The drunkard could probably be swayed by an alluring look; the assassin may require _some_ physical exertion and the promise of more; but how the Orlesian would seduce the Qunari was beyond Morrigan's power to fathom. As for Alistair… Morrigan could picture the good knight whispering encouragements to the bard's ear as she sobbed and bawled about how the evil witch spirited away _poor wittle Nyx_…

"I told you. She turned into a bird and flew away to take care of some personal business," Morrigan said with just the right mix of scorn and indifference to make the incredible statement sound plausible. The golden eyes found an escape route to the right, a path above and beyond the elven chariot that one may tread if one had, say, eight hooked legs. Morrigan relaxed a little.

"And you expect us to believe that… that _witchy_ _fairy tale_?" Alistair blurted, struggling to find words to express his indignation.

"Why yes, I do expect _you_ to believe in fairy tales. As for the truth, it is obviously beyond your faculties to comprehend. I would recommend you gave up the effort, lest you hurt yourself," Morrigan purred. Knowing that _this_ might one day sit on the throne of Ferelden made her long for the Wilds.

"This is not a game, Morrigan. Making fun of Alistair will not make you look better", Leliana said quietly.

"If this is not a game then what is it? Am I to stand trial? Who shall be judge? My, but look at the court: an idiot, an assassin, a drunkard, a convicted murderer, not to forget the pretty spy who had the Warden assassinate her lover", Morrigan exclaimed, staring disdainfully at each of the companions as she reminded them of their little sins. The blood withdrew from Leliana's face and she stepped forward.

Something fell from the darkening sky with a shrill cry; the small shape bounced twice on the grassy floor in a whirl of brown and grey feathers and ended its course sprawled against Morrigan's ankles. Runt trotted forward and greeted the bird with a joyous bark.

"Auuugh!" Nyx's voice came out strangely deformed from the small cyclone of feathers and mystical energy that suddenly enveloped Morrigan's legs; seconds later the elf laid sprawled on her back at the witch's feet, pointy ears and all.

"Ow... Need to work on landings…" The sorceress groaned, rubbing her head. Her expression then turned to one of feigned horror as she looked up. "Maker… Did you borrow Flemeth's underwear?" she asked in mock disbelief.

Morrigan hastily jumped backwards. "I… the weather is _cold_ and…" she blurted defensively.

Nyx chuckled as she rose to her feet, lovingly brushing dust and crushed grass off her dalish armor. Crash landing or not, she was mightily satisfied with herself. The muscles in her back and chest felt incredibly stiff and painful, and her stomach was literally clamoring for attention, but things could have been _so_ much worse. She vaguely remembered reading something about birds needing to eat a lot to meet the energetic demand of flight. _No kidding_. Looking around, she suddenly realized that everyone was staring at her, and none too kindly. Leliana's blue eyes met hers and they were very, very cold.

_Uh-ho_…

"If you are finished surveying Morrigan's swampy bits, maybe you and I could have a chat, yes?" the bard inquired in a controlled, icy voice.

Nyx sighed.

* * *

NB: Can't make up my mind if I read the "Flemeth underwear" joke somewhere or made it up; guess that's the problem with spending waaay too much time browsing here. In case I did lift it from someone's fanfic let me know, I'll think of an alternative. I can always think of a few things relative to Morry's swamp, heh.


	14. Chapter 14: Road to insanity

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Road to insanity**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

Short and not so sweet. Hey, it's been raining for days!

"Why would you risk your life to aid _her_?"

Leliana stood with her arms crossed in the Keeper's aravel, the top of her head almost level with the carved wood ceiling. There was a hint of red on her pale cheeks, and her shapely breasts moved up and down in barely controlled breathing under her supple drakeskin armor. Both signs could augur well in the proper context, Nyx reflected. Right now, they did _not_.

"HrmI Mneeded…" Nyx interrupted herself to hastily swallow a mouthful of bread and went on, "I needed to understand what the deal was with Flemeth leaving her grimoire for us to find in the Tower. What she really wanted to do with Morrigan, how the process worked. I know you don't like her, but I have a lot in common with Morrigan. Or with Flemeth, take your pick."

"Well? What did you discover? Was it worth the risk?"

Nyx sighed. The bread and the plate of cold meat in front of her silently beckoned to her stomach: _eat us, eat us_, they begged. She pushed them away.

"Not much. Flemeth had almost entirely retired into the Fade. I was hoping that she would talk to me, that maybe I could lure her into giving me some ideas, clues, _something_. But when I saw her… I just panicked." Nyx frowned at the memory of the encounter, of the massive _power_ that she had glimpsed through the Veil. "I fled", she whispered, "I turned into a bird and flew away. She turned into a dragon and went after me." Even now, in the calm of the Dalish encampment, the memory of the high dragon, of the terror and beauty, sent the sorceress' pulse racing.

"She _what_? What did you do? Can she find you here?" The bard's eyes shot to the aravel's small windows, as though she expected a torrent of flame to gush through any second.

"She's dead, Lel. At least her body is", Nyx answered, brushing aside the bard's alarm with a little smile. "She chased after me. It was… terrifying. I was faster, barely, and I led her into the darskpawn horde. They took her for an oversized Grey Warden, I think; they cut her to pieces while I hid in a crevice in the ground." Nyx watched the shock in Leliana's face come and wane as the bard digested the information. "I went back to her hut in the Wilds and I took her spellbook." The sorceress gestured in direction of a big, black tome laid out on the table's corner. The leather cover glistened faintly in the candlelight.

"So that is what you risked everything for? A book? More _power_?" Leliana spat that last word as though it was one of those small, stinking bits Nyx sometimes found wedged between her teeth after a meat-heavy lunch.

"Yes. And yes. Did you miss the part where I was a mage?" Nyx groaned, bristling at the contempt she perceived in the bard's voice. Familiar anger was building up. This conversation needed to be over soon.

"Silly me. I thought you cared about other things than power." Leliana said in an icy voice. The bard never seemed to really lose her temper; the angrier she was the more self-possessed and coolly efficient she became. That was one of many things Nyx admired in her. At the time being she hated it, with a passion.

"Why do you think I need power? To revive bleeding _rosebushes_?" Nyx hissed.

The sorceress had not been through fire and dragons to be reprimanded like a disobedient fledgling. The thought infuriated her, and she clenched her fist reflexively. It was a mistake. Pain shot from the dead hand, the feeling like ghostly flames consuming her flesh all over again. The pain melded with her growing anger, stoking the fires of rage; dark flames rushed through her veins, whispering words of wisdom. Why was the bard so darn thick? She should have been able to see how badly Nyx _needed_ power, not just for power's sake, but to save her and all those smug humans, self-righteous elves and dumb dwarves from an evil their small brains could not even comprehend. Yet here was the Orlesian renegade, schooling _her_ about the value of power… The dark flames knew the redhead bard for what she was: a Chantry varlet, trying to trade pussy for power; holding Nyx back, pushing her down into the mud, _denying her_…

The human female was still talking; her lips formed sounds that came too low, too slow. Something in Nyx confusedly understood that this was wrong, _very_ wrong. The thunder of the bard's beating heart drowned her words, filling the sorceress' mind with the hypnotic rhythm of the hunt. Nyx's heart was beating much too fast, too; it was hard to think through the rising, boiling, and utterly delicious rage. Dark power, dark flames danced to great hunting drums; the dead fist was clenched as hard as stone. The prey's living essence shone very bright through its thin, fragile skin; soon the aravel's interior was bathed in a red, pulsating glow, the sculpted ceiling taking on the smooth, glistening appearance of freshly butchered meat. The joints were weak; it would take little effort to rip the arms off at the shoulders; the ribcage could be opened like a book. The prey's delicate scent changed, lily and cinnamon fading to be replaced by the enticing, coppery aroma of blood. Hunger rose, all-consuming.

Nyx staggered to her feet, the fingers of her ungloved hand leaving deep grooves in the hardwood table as she clung to it for balance. She saw Leliana take one step back, an alarmed expression on her face, and through the bloodlust the embattled sorceress managed an incongruous thought. _She's so cute when she's scared_. The thought brought on a little chuckle, hardly more than a bark. But it helped, and the dark flames abated slightly, giving her a little time to think and fight for control. _Ah_... She struggled to focus her thoughts.

Leliana sang by the campfire, her voice causing tiny, nearly imperceptible ripples in the ever-present shimmer of the Veil; red hair shining like a flame, a questioning look in the blues eyes as the little sorceress stared in awe. White breasts uncovered for the first time in Denerim, Nyx not knowing what to do until the pale, pink nipple brushed over her lips. The images drained the dark power with increasing speed; Nyx's vision returned to normal, her withered fist slowly unclenching.

Leliana was saying something, pink lips moving, her voice still muffled, but becoming clearer as the sound of her beating heart receded in the sorceress' mind.

"Nyx, my Warden, you can fight him. If it was just you and I against the world, my Nyx, the world would never stand a chance…"

Very carefully, Leliana moved forward, talking in a soothing voice, the words themselves nearly devoid of sense; she repeated the Warden's name over and over in relaxing, hypnotic patterns. The bard carefully reached for Nyx's face, and the sorceress briefly fought the bestial impulse to tear her hand off. The touch on her face was fresh and soothing, and suddenly the god's bloodlust was gone; it popped into nothingness like a bubble of black, burning tar.

The room spun and Nyx's legs buckled as guilt and exhaustion washed over her. The bard caught her before she fell and helped her to a chair. Nyx shook uncontrollably, her stomach heaving as her body struggled to eliminate the waste products of the rage. Her mind struggled even harder to come to terms with what had just happened. Leliana cradled the elf's head, whispering that everything would be all right.

"I'm sorry", Nyx murmured through chattering teeth. Tears may have helped. But tears had no place in Fen'Harel's vessel.

* * *

They left the Dalish camp late in the morning. The weather turned to typical thin, relentless Fereldan rain, and for days the Warden's companions plodded in mud and the ashes of the scorched forest, their soaked cloaks and clothes further impeding movement. Walking was a slow, laborious affair, and the rain and fog so limited visibility that they often walked in circles. At night Nyx conjured fire to try and keep the little group warm, but the soggy wood and the never-ending rain snuffed the flames halfway through the night, and they always woke up shivering with cold. Nyx didn't mind the distraction. Her mindscape was even gloomier than the desolation her firestorm had unleashed on the forest.

Flemeth's book had turned out to be yet another disappointment, although it did contain a collection of destruction spells and interesting ramblings about the nature of the Fade and demons. It did not contain anything remotely useful in fighting or even understanding demonic possession. Subtle enchantments shone through the very letters on the crackling pages; browsing through Flemeth's convoluted handwriting for more than a few minutes made her feel nauseous and strangely _displaced_. Nyx now suspected that the old bat had gone to great lengths to ensure that her grimoire reached Morrigan's hands, preferably _after_ her earthly body was destroyed. She gave the book to the witch with a short summary of her misgivings, and Morrigan expressed her gratitude in a way that was heartfelt and almost touching. But judging by the hungry look in the golden eyes, Nyx could tell that her warnings would not be heeded. But that was to be expected; she knew that she and Morrigan were but pawns, to be used and discarded in a game beyond their comprehension. Nyx was tired of the game.

Free will was a fallacy.

The bloodlust left her alone for now. The journey was physically exhausting, but there were no bandits, no roaming darkspawn, no immediate dangers that may have summoned the god's rage. If anything, the woods and the countryside were too quiet, as though nature was holding its breath, waiting - for what, she had no idea. Nyx was just as quiet, avoiding talk whenever possible.

She did not share her tent with Leliana any more. Time and again the bard sought her out; Nyx met her attempts at communication with evasive statements at best, and with sullen silence more often than not. She did not trust herself in Leliana's presence. Nyx remembered vividly how she had wanted to tear Leliana limb from limb, how she had come within a hairbreadth of feeding the bard's clear, caring soul to Fen'Harel. And she knew that this was no passing madness. The god's power was always lurking at the fringe of her consciousness, like a predator waiting for the first sign of weakness, to pounce and shred and maul. Nyx suspected that _He_ was somehow drawn to Leliana, just like she was; in the dark hours of the night she came to wonder if _He_ was the reason behind her attraction to the bard. Soon she could no longer shake off the maddening thought: it was all an arranged marriage, a match literally made in Hell. _Black pawn takes white queen, paints the chessboard crimson_. Never the most stable piece on the board, Nyx felt herself totter closer to the edge of insanity. The whispers cheered her on.

The whispers… Nyx's connection with the Archdemon, the great, tainted dragon that was the mind and heart of the horde, seemed to deepen by the day, perhaps feeding on her desperate mood. The beast was no longer happy with just troubling her sleep; increasingly she could feel its poisoned touch in broad daylight. It was as though she was drawing ever closer to the Archdemon, instead of turning her back to the horde. Judging by Alistair's uncharacteristically somber bearings, he felt it, too. Nyx wondered if _he_ could understand the beast. She thought she did. Most of the time the whispers were unintelligible; sometimes, though, they seemed to form words, and she felt the caress of fear, much colder than the rain.

_I will destroy everything you know_, the whispers said. _I will kill everyone you ever cared for. You know I will._

Nyx ground her teeth and ignored the whispers, and most of the time they went away; but they always came back clearer. And just as her comprehension of the tainted god grew, so did the beast's understanding of her. The day before they reached Denerim, the dragon finally found the chink in the armor, and the whispers boiled down to the hard truth, repeated with insane glee.

_You_ _will kill her_, the whispers said.


	15. Chapter 15: Red

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Red**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

"Hey Red! Watch what you're doing!" Old Jack bellowed above the din of his little corner of hell.

The redhead minstrel staggered on the table, sending two more pots of bier crashing down to the floor before she caught her balance and addressed him a would-be seductive wink. She was a pretty one, pale-skinned with an angel's face and a desire demon's body; minus the tail, of course. Jack was not so easily swayed. He had seen enough pretty birds drink themselves to an early grave to be quite impervious to their charm. For most of the girls, the tavern was just a stopover on their way to the brothel. Sometimes they ran from an abusive spouse or family; sometimes they just seemed to enjoy the life. Jack tried to help when he could, but the Siren's Rest in Denerim– also known by the locals as the Fishy Hole- could not afford to pay much besides free lodgings and ale. The innkeeper hardly ever saw this particular bird eat anything, but Maker did she imbibe. Tonight Red had drunk even more than any day of the week or so she had been in his employ, and her voice was the worst for wear.

Red grated her lute, striking up a bawdy tune to the cheers of the small crowd that had gathered around her table. An Antivan sailor handed her a mug of ale and she paused to drink in long, avid gulps. The crowd cheered some more as the minstrel overturned the empty mug above the sailor's head, droplets trickling onto the man's braided black hair. The minstrel thanked her audience by swaying her hips in a gesture that might have been sexy if it was not made so blatantly clumsy by alcohol. Jack doubted that the assistance appreciated the difference. The minstrel's antics attracted a small, enthusiastic following amongst the mixed bag of sailors and local workers which made up most of the Siren's patrons, and many of those guys were eager for some quality time with her. Inevitably, some ill-informed clowns asked Jack to act as middleman. A few choice words and a flash from under the innkeeper's bushy eyebrows invariably warned the clueless to drop the subject. There was a big, thick red line between being an amiable publican and being a pimp, and the former soldier would not be caught riding it.

Jack winced as the minstrel, her song finished, jumped down from the table, but she caught herself up quite decently, staggered to the bar and rested her elbows on the copper-plated wood. Her tasteful, if somewhat skimpy green dress revealed well-defined shoulder muscles; the faint outlines of scars told of a life that was certainly not spent lunging around in taverns.

"No", the burly innkeeper said in his low, rumbling voice.

"Jack…I haven't asked for anything yet…" the redhead slurred, cocking her head to the side in a cute pose that sought to mollify him.

"Ask away, then," he replied with a shrug.

"Jack… Can I have a whisky? I'm fhtirst.. thirf…" The Orlesian struggled with the alien sound; "Want a glass," she concluded.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because."

Red giggled. "You know, Jack, you remind me of a Qu- Qurnani… _zut_… Qunari! Of a Qunari I used to know. Acted all tough, but he was just a big softy, like you."

The old soldier nodded. "I'll take that as a compliment. Qunari are tough sumbitches. We've killed a couple in our time", he said with a small nod in direction of his one and only mistress. Red nodded appreciatively; truly _she_ was a beauty. Old Jack oiled and massaged _her_ every day, first thing before breakfast. The longsword's polished steel gleamed in the candlelight.

"Well, then, how'bout a wixie… whig… _drink_ to the good old days?" Red proposed hopefully.

"No."

Red stomped in frustration. "I will pay you, Jack. I have sold my daggers, got a bunch of gold… _Merde_, where is my purse?" she groaned as she patted herself. No pockets on the dress, she suddenly remembered. "Ah-ah!" she exclaimed as she plunged a hand into her cleavage and triumphantly extracted the small leather pouch.

"Put your tit back where it belongs…" Jack groaned, staring stoically at the mug he had been cleaning for a solid two minutes. Red giggled and adjusted her dress.

"Yessir, right away sir!" she quipped. Returning to her main concern, she pulled two shining silver coins out of her purse and stacked them on the brass of the bar. "Two whiskeys, Jack. I want you to drink with me. To adventure", she said merrily.

"Red…" Jack put a big, scarred, tough paw of a hand over hers. The old man knew he was wasting his time, but trying never hurts. "Red", he repeated to get the drunken minstrel's full attention, "why the fuck are you doing this?" He saw a flicker of understanding on the girl's face, and for a second he thought they might be getting somewhere with this. Then her face closed like a metal door, the bright blue eyes defiant under the red-gold hair.

"Mind your own business, Jack", she said in an icy voice. "It is better like that. Now may I buy a drink or do I have to… how do you say in Ferelden? Suck someone off for it?"

Jack reached for the liquor bottle without a word. The birds, they came, they went, but they never listened.

* * *

The nausea woke her up, just like every day for the past... Many days, she wasn't sure of the count. The morning light hurt her eyes and she fumbled blindly for the bucket, grabbing it just in time to empty the contents of her stomach. She kept her head over the stinking bucket for a long time after the retching subsided, feeling too weak to move.

Her second move was to reach for the jug of water she kept by her bedside; she had to fight hard, but she managed to keep the liquid down. She washed herself quickly, noticing how her muscles seemed to lose their tone. She knew that she had probably lost a lot of weight. She was wasting away faster than she thought possible. But she had survived far, far worse than a week or two of alcohol-induced starvation. This was not the end of the road yet, just an unpleasant interlude in a life of adventure. Red would never drink herself to death, unlike a certain romantic fool who insisted on throwing herself at pimps and evil, selfish bitches. Red had more pride than that.

She got up and the plain little room spun for a while, then slowly stabilized. The small mirror that she had nailed to the wall informed her that yes, her eyes were red and puffy, and yes, her ribs stuck out a little too much, but Maker help her, there still were not many women in dog-scented Ferelden who could compare with her. She played with the mirror for a minute, alternating provocative and coy poses. Now she was a lascivious seductress, her finger caressing her full lips in a gesture that men and women understood unequivocally as a promise of pure bliss; she passed her hands over her face as though taking off a mask, and there she was, a pure, innocent virgin, her blue eyes begging for protection from a cruel, predatory world. A passage of the hand, and she was a no-nonsense, straightforward woman, the unflinching pillar of family life. A minute shift in expression, and the mirror revealed an artist, possessed of an immortal flame as her eyes spied things beyond the reach of mortals. A flicker of the red-gold hair, and she was a priest, her expression soft yet totally self-possessed. The masks changed in rapid succession; a blushing maid; a bashful warrior; a haughty noble; a timid clerk; a mighty mage. She could be _any_ woman. She could have _anybody_.

Then why in Andraste's sweet name did she feel so darn miserable?

Red angrily threw a palm at the wall; the coarse wooden planks groaned under the shock. She still had a wicked cross. When she looked back at the mirror she saw only herself, Leliana, with red, puffy eyes and ribs that stuck out way too much.

She got dressed quickly; the simple blouse and aprons of a serving girl. Today she intended to work the marketplace, and for this she needed to blend in with the working-class crowds. She felt no guilt at the thought of stealing; _everyone wants something, and everyone will do whatever it takes to get it_. True words, though they were spoken, days ago, by a stupid, stupid bitch in love. She cast a look at the Andrastian medallion hanging over the bed's head, hesitated. These days prayer brought her little comfort, and today was no exception; the Chant's words merely dropped off her lips and evaporated into nothingness. She hasted down the ill-lit, creaky stairs, knowing that what she really needed was movement, action; anything rather than staying alone with her regrets. Old Jack was busy mopping the common room's rough stone floor.

"Red", he rumbled in greeting, without raising his head from his work.

"Jack", she replied, studying the burly old man's face. There was a fresh, purple bruise on his massive forehead, just below the receding hairline. "Rough business yesterday?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Jack interrupted his work to shoot her a sharp glance.

"You don't remember your Antivan friend, do you?" he asked as he returned his attention to his task.

"My… Oh. Did I… cause trouble again?" she asked sheepishly.

"Trouble? Ha!" the innkeeper snorted, "You might have caused trouble for _yourself_, if he and his friends had carried you away after you passed out on my bar. As for _my_ trouble…" He grinned, brown eyes glinting mischievously in his clean-shaven, weathered face. "I eat the likes of them for breakfast and still have room for bacon", he concluded.

"Shall I make you breakfast, then?" Leliana ran behind the bar before the old man had the time to reply. Bangs and clangs issued from the small, dingy kitchen as she quickly put together a simple, hearty meal. Minutes later she was back with a tray laden with fried bacon, eggs and a big loaf of bread. They ate in silence, enjoying the simple fare and sincere company. Things were looking up: today she managed to keep her breakfast.

* * *

The mark was a gaunt, forty-something merchant clad in overly ostentatious velvet robes and a fur bonnet. To make things interesting, Leliana waited until her "customer" stopped to examine a vegetable stall, practically under the city guards' nose. She was just about to lift the well-garnished purse when a familiar "woof" caused her, the mark and the nearby guards to jump in perfect unison. A second later a massive, hairy head, complete with fangs the size of her thumbs and a pink, serpentine tongue, was affectionately nuzzling her nether regions.

"Runt?" she blurted in surprise. The hound whined happily in response. "Runt, what are you doing? You can't… I mean…" _Great_, she thought. How was she supposed to explain the mabari that she was no longer welcome in his mistress' entourage, while she herself could not even start to understand it, let alone accept it?

"_I want you to go", the sorceress had said. And that was about darn all._

Leliana fought a rising sense of panic. Coming to the market place had been a mistake. Where the mabari went, Nyx could not be too far. She would _not_ face her again. She spun on her heels and walked away at a brisk pace, all the time trying to shoo away the caracoling dog.

"Leliana!" The voice was familiar, but mercifully not the one she feared. She kept walking all the same, until she felt the man's hand on her shoulder. She spun around to face him.

"What do you want, Alistair?" she asked in a voice that came out harsher than she intended. Her eyes grew wide as she took in the sight of her former comrade-in-arms. Alistair was not wearing his usual, massive red steel armor; she reflected that this was the only time she saw him unarmored and, for all appearances, unarmed as well. His cheerful countenance was gone, and he looked almost… _ashamed_? A short distance behind Alistair, three burly fellows clad in nondescript brown garments stopped abruptly in their tracks, their eyes fixed on the pair. In a smooth, natural motion Leliana crossed her arms before her chest, her hands seeking the handles of the twin folding knives stashed in her belt. Alistair noticed the movement and shook his head.

"They are with me, Leliana. Those are the Queen's men, assigned to escort me out of Ferelden," he said with a little discomfited grin.

Leliana nodded slowly. The Queen… So the Landsmeet was over, and this was the result…

"Loghain?" she asked softly.

Alistair clenched his jaw, a shadow of anger passing on his handsome features. He closed his eyes for a few seconds before he answered the question.

"She made him a Grey Warden. That's when I lost it. I… told them that they could all go to hell, and that I would never let that happen if I was king and…" He stopped talking, mortified.

"… And Nyx gave the crown to Anora," Leliana concluded. Her mind was racing to try and find a reason, some pattern that explained the elf's behavior. Not that the choice of Anora surprised her much. The Warden and Alistair had always agreed on one point: he would make a disastrous ruler. But sparing Loghain was utterly out of character. With the single notable exception of Zevran, Nyx's enemies invariably met swift, searing retribution.

"…and here I am", Alistair confirmed, "On my way to the docks, to leave Ferelden by the first boat. At least I don't get to wear a silly golden hat," he concluded with a little grin.

Leliana patted his arm affectionately. "That _is_ a major consolation", she said with a warm smile, "So where will you go?"

The grin vanished, and the warrior suddenly looked very young and very lost. "I… I don't know", he muttered. "I have never left Ferelden before. I don't know where to go. I don't even know what I can do, apart from, you know, killing darkspawn …"

A merchant was writing down the morning's takings at a nearby stall. On an impulse, Leliana threw the man a seductive wink and a handful of coins, snatched his quill and a sheet of paper, and wrote a short note in Orlesian:

_Dear Louis,_

_The bearer of this message is Alistair T., a very well-considered gentleman and friend of mine. I would be infinitely grateful if you could help him for old time's sake._

_Yours always,_

_Red._

She sealed the note with the befuddled merchant's wax and handed it to Alistair.

"Here", she said in a low voice, "If you ever… happened to be in Val Royaux, I want you to give this letter to a friend of mine. His name is Louis Desrochers. Day-roe-shay. He will help you get started." How strange, to spell that name out loud in a foreign country.

Alistair blushed a little, hesitating to take the missive. "I… but… Isn't it a bit… I mean, isn't Orlais…" he stuttered.

Leliana gave him her sunniest smile. "Yes it is. And, it is also the one place where Anora's assassins will never get to you, should she regret letting you go", she whispered.

"Oh. I see… Thank you," Alistair said as he pocketed the note. It was a novel, bittersweet feeling, saying goodbye to a brother in arms. Until she met the Warden's party Leliana had mainly worked alone, and the few times she had teamed up with other operatives she never trusted them where her daggers could not reach them. She would miss Alistair's simple, earnest friendship.

"You are welcome, Alistair. Maybe sometimes you will write to me, yes? Give me news of my hometown." Thinking back to Val Royaux added to Leliana's nostalgic mood. Runt licked her hand, and she patted his big head absently. Alistair was leaving; the Warden would certainly not linger after the landsmeet; she was probably on her way to Redcliffe now… She looked at her drool-covered hand.

"Wait, why is Runt with you?" she blurted in shock.

* * *

She dashed through the streets, clutching her aprons to her body, weaving through the crowds with an agility that was the result of a long practice running away from trouble in a bigger, far more dangerous metropolis. The ubiquitous mud, however, was a Denerim specialty, and she slipped quite a few times, clutching to passing citizens for balance. Before long people went well out of their way to give the crazy, filth-covered wench and her bouncing war hound a wide berth. At the crossroad of Weaver's Street she almost ran into an incoming carriage, the driver shouting a string of colorful epithets as he reined in his ox, the great wooden wheels swerving mere inches from her. Thank the Maker that horses were such a rarity in this city…

Even as she raced through the maze of dingy streets and alleys that separated her from the Siren, her body doing most of the navigation for her, Leliana's mind kept running in panicked circles. Nyx had painted the Hall of the Landsmeet crimson with the blood of Loghain's men, only to spare the very man who had tried to kill her so many times. Nyx had abandoned Runt, trusting the mabari to the care of a man she had always considered unable to take care of himself.

Leliana thought she recognized the pattern; the reason behind the Warden's apparently haphazard behavior. _The stupid, reckless elf; the lonely little mage._ Nyx was letting go of everything she cared for and enlisting her mortal enemy to accompany her to a final showdown with the Archdemon. She did not intend to survive the confrontation.

Now all Leliana could do was run like the wind. Four days. The Warden and the Queen's host had been gone for four days, and she was still stuck in Denerim. If only she had kept her ears open and sought news of the palace instead of wallowing in self-pity. If only she had met Alistair and Runt earlier. If only she had not allowed herself to be thrown away by the crazy elf. If she had reasoned. If she had begged. If she had fought. "Ifs" buzzed in her head like a swarm of gnats.

She had no idea of what she would do if she managed to catch Nyx in time; she trusted her skills to get her to Redcliffe and through any guard the Warden might have surrounded herself with. Beyond that… Leliana's mind was blank. Maybe she'd grab the elf by the nap of the neck and shake until she snapped out of her insanity. Maybe fuck her brains out. Maybe cling to her leg and beg. Bards were good at improvising. _Whatever it takes, but Maker please don't let her do something stupid_…

She finally reached the Siren and bolted through the low door and down the short flight of stairs, rushing past the copper-plated bar. Old Jack raised an eyebrow at her muck-splattered attire and cast an appreciative glance at her four-legged companion, but did not comment until she was back from her upstairs room, dressed in glinting drakeskin – she had never found the strength to sell the armor- and openly carrying the now unpacked, ornately carved longbow that she took from the _other_, so many weeks ago. After all this time looking out for the Orlesian bird, Jack was well entitled to a little ogling, and that he did with great satisfaction. There was a glint in her eye, a spring in her step, which the old man had never really thought he would see there.

"So", he said, crossing massive, scar-covered arms.

"So", she replied with a shy little smile. It was the first time he saw that expression on her, too, and he liked it a lot. It reminded him of his kids, before they grew up and forgot his name.

"You're going?"

"Yes. I… am needed elsewhere. You will be all right?"

"Me? Ha! I'll have another minstrel here by the afternoon, and I'll have forgotten your name by nightfall", he snorted. "Take care, Red", he added, offering a paw over the counter.

"Leliana," she corrected gently as she took the offered hand. "Friends call me Leliana. Thank you, Jack. For everything." In a fluid motion she propped herself up and over the bar and deposited a light kiss on the innkeeper's cheek. Then in a blur of red hair and leather she was gone, the great hound trotting after her.

"So long, Leliana", Old Jack murmured. It was a pretty name; maybe he would remember it for a while. Whistling, he reached for a rag and started cleaning the polished brass of the bar.


	16. Chapter 16: Eye of the storm

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Eye of the storm**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related lore/ characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

Canticle verses lifted from the DA Wikia website, a real gold mine which I intend to plunder outrageously as this little tale progresses.

* * *

Leliana emerged from the tavern and took off at a moderate run through the same winding streets she had been sprinting along minutes before. The brief stop at the Siren had allowed her to regain her bearings, and she now understood that try as she might, she was not likely to sprint all the way to Redcliffe. As she deftly wove her way between passing crowds, she worked on her fear, consciously pushing it to the back of her mind where it would not cause her to make mistakes. Soon her body and mind started working in perfect unison, bringing her closer to her goal with each long, effortless stride. There would be a time for plans, a time for worry and, Maker preserve her, there may well come a time for mourning. But now was not the time.

Now, there was only the hunt and her strengthening resolve.

She reveled in her renewed vigor, in the effortless way she moved, the strength she felt in her muscles; the nearly supernatural way her reflexes allowed her to anticipate the crowds' motions. Let mages wield thunder, let warriors plod around in heavy armor. She, Leliana of Val Royaux, was a hunter, and she would exchange her lot with no one. Today, she was chasing marks truly worthy of her. Today, she was hunting gods.

Leliana did not know how she would do it, she did not know whether she would survive it, but with the Maker's help she would find her way back to her Warden's side and stand with her to the end, against the Archdemon, Fen'Harel and whatever fate would throw in their way. If the Maker had indeed a plan for her, it would happen, and if not… She would not be around any more to cry about it. It felt so good, to let go of doubt and once again simply, completely dedicate herself to here and now: one mind, one purpose.

As she crossed the bridge over the Drakon river, she had to slow down a little to take in the sight. Leliana loved bridges; she saw them as a symbol of man's ability to work together to overcome their differences. Unlike Val Royaux's gracefully arched bridges, which were cluttered on both sides by elegant, if somewhat mismatched, boutiques and residences, Denerim's sturdy bridges were kept open, offering a breathtaking sight over the Drakon's roiling waters and the tree-lined embankments. As she often did when confronted with the beauty of the world, Leliana started humming a whimsical tune, naturally translating her impressions into words and music. She caught herself wishing for a quill and paper and laughed aloud at her own silliness. There she was, little old Leliana, chasing after a blood mage she loved, rushing to confront an Archdemon and a forgotten dread god; soon she might be dead at the hands of the darkspawn or of her own lover; and yet she was only concerned that she could not write down her ballad. The good people of Denerim cast her suspicious glances as she took off again, giggling as she ran.

As she left the river behind, she became aware of a commotion ahead of her, on the square before East Bridge. People were milling about, moving in and out of nearby buildings faster than usual, gathering in small groups to talk. Leliana wondered if the outcome of the Landsmeet had finally been made public; that would explain the talking and the animation, she reflected, but not account for the somber look on most faces. Spying a large group gathered round a very upset, fat housewife in her thirties, Leliana stopped by to eavesdrop.

"I'm telling ye, them city gates are barred and the guards, they're running all over the walls, like ants in a pan they are!" The fat woman was out of breath, and Leliana reflected that she might indeed have run all the way from the gates to share the news with her neighbors.

"Why'd they do that, why'd they do that hey?" a young, handsome lad in a cook's attire inquired, rolling her eyes in fright.

"I'eard Teyrn Loghain was leaving for war. Maybe they want to make sure he _stays_ there", a sour-faced, mustachioed cobbler offered.

"Maybe there's a Qunari ship approaching, like last month, an' they just want to make sure they won't cause no trouble", a rotund maid proposed with a sheepish smile.

The conversation went on in like fashion for a little while, and Leliana wondered if the very name in the back of their minds carried such weight, such terror, that the good citizens of Denerim would not utter it until it was right on them. For there was only one logical explanation.

_Darkspawn_.

She could not say who first uttered the word, or where on the esplanade the terrified whispers began. But they spread fast. In a moment the ghastly name was on all lips, repeated in increasingly strident fashion. Soon anguished cries rang through the streets. People ran to the relative safety of their homes, carrying children in their arms. Men could be seen boarding over their windows. In minutes the streets were all but deserted. Leliana resumed her course through the now ghostly city, her spirits much dampened by the news. It was still possible that the darkspawn sighted were but small band, a raiding party which would ravage a few farms and run before the city guard could mount a punitive expedition. She would have to wait for a few hours until the gates opened; at worst she would wait for the cover of the night, climb down the city walls with a salvaged rope and be on her way to her Warden. She forbade herself to think of the other possibility, the one which meant the undoing of all her plans. As if to mock her forced optimism, the sound of the alarm bells rolled down from Fort Drakon's tower.

As she progressed between the Merchant Quarter's now eerily quiet and barricaded shops, she began to notice movement along the Merchants' Road. A small number of men and women, looking scared but resolute, emerged here and there from their homes. They were clad in salvaged armor, clutched worn family blades, bid their loved ones goodbye with unsteady voices: the Denerim militia, a corps of volunteers who lacked everything but courage.

Leliana thought of Old Jack. Back at the Siren's Rest, the beefy innkeeper would be donning well-worn armor and preparing for the last battle of a long, violent life. She could almost picture him, the loving grin he would address his razor-sharp mistress, the long look he would give the Siren's common room before he locked the door and turned his back on his little corner of Hell.

Leliana ran with the militia, towards the gates and the approaching storm.

* * *

_Maker save our souls._

Leliana stood on the massive rampart by the Gates, Marjolaine's bow held steady in her hand, her bearings as relaxed and confident as if she was seated at the sunny terrace of an Orlesian tavern. She knew that the militiamen around her were a hair's breadth from throwing their weapons and running in fright, and she could not let them see through her mask of bravery.

Behind the mask, Leliana's mind reeled in terror at the spectacle that unfurled in front of her.

The rich fields and the plain before Denerim were moving. From a distance, it was impossible to shake the feeling that what she saw was not the great darkspawn horde, composed of thousand upon thousand of grunting individuals, but the very earth, mysteriously liquefied and animated, rising in a single, colossal black ripple and flowing lazily to embrace the city.

In the distance Leliana could make out the eye of the approaching cyclone: a massive, reddish dust cloud, much higher than the highest towers of Denerim, but slowly stretching out and settling down to reveal a gaping abyss, the great rift where the horde had finally broken the protective crust of the earth. The darkspawn host oozed from the violated ground like rotten blood from an infected wound. Leliana knew that only the proximity of the sea and the shallow water tables had prevented the horde from burrowing under the city and emerging into it like an abominable newborn.

She also suspected that the end result would be pretty much the same. Loghain and the Queen had left Denerim with only a token garrison of city guards to man the walls, a force that would have a hard time repelling a well-coordinated pirate attack. Against the horde, this skeleton crew and the ill-equipped, poorly trained militia had about the same chances of winning as an elf child against a Qunari warrior. The walls would fall within hours, a day at most, even if the Archdemon itself did not enter combat. Leliana thought she caught a glimpse of movement above the horde, like a dark silhouette sliding within the cover of dust and shadow, and her heart sank even deeper. Ever since she left Lothering she had known that she would play a part in the Blight's final act; she had thought herself ready to face the Archdemon. But not like that.

Not alone.

"Where are you when I need you, my little mage?", she whispered under her breath, fighting for control over her fear and frustration; she fought back tears with the ease of a long practice, one of Marjolaine's bitterest lessons, and one she had suffered in her flesh to learn. Her bearings remained indifferent, almost regal. She knew that the body controlled the mind just as much as the mind controlled the body; she forced her body to remain calm, her breathing smooth and controlled, her muscles consciously relaxed.

Her mind eventually quieted, resolve coming back as strong as ever, even as the black wave edged closer to the walls. She could not expect for her Warden to ever find any trace of her; she knew all too well what the darkspawn did with the bodies of the vanquished. But in a small, desperate way, Leliana could still make a difference. She could fight to the end. Every creature she killed or wounded, every minute she helped delay the horde, would give Nyx a better fighting chance and maybe, just maybe, if the darn elf was not too reckless, a chance to survive all this.

Then Leliana would not have lived in vain.

With thundering clangs, the great catapults atop the guard towers sprung into action, signaling the end of the long wait and the beginning of the end. The setting sun lit a blaze in her hair as Leliana cocked her head back and intoned the first stanza of the Ballad of Calenhad.

* * *

"Get the hell out of my room!" The elven Warden's voice, unusually strident, cut through the night's silence and woke a solid half of the Arl of Redcliffe's retinue. Zevran grabbed his daggers and rolled out of bed in one, seamless motion. As he stood by the door, listening intently, Erlina's flowing dark hair and pretty, sleepy face emerged from the bed sheets.

"Where are you going?" she inquired in her outrageously accented Fereldan. Zevran suspected she overdid the accent just for the cutesy factor. She was a smart one, the Queen's little maid, not to mention a very well-learned lover. He expected that in time she would wield considerable influence at the Court, even though she was but an elf. Supposing that Ferelden was not devoured by the Blight first, of course.

"Nature calls, my dear", he replied as he quickly wrapped a towel around his loins.

"I should probably be going". True; yet her eyes told a different, spicier story.

"Why don't you make sure my bed stays warm, carissima? And I might have a surprise for you when I come back," Zevran promised with a wolfish smile.

As he slipped out of his room into the stone corridor, his well-honed senses confirmed that apart from the sorceress' latest outburst, the castle was absolutely peaceful. One of the Arl's personal guards, surprised by his sudden appearance, clutched his sword briefly before he recognized one of the Grey Wardens' honored companions. The elf cast him a lascivious wink and the young man hurriedly returned his attention to the tips of his boots.

Zevran watched as a furious Morrigan emerged from the Warden's doorstep, her yellow eyes glistening with rage. Nyx's voice pursued her, taunting.

"You want power, just screw a demon like your mama!"

Zevran sighed. The problem with Nyx these days was that she was more unhinged than ever. Everyone could see that since her separation from the Orlesian, the Warden's behavior had changed, from simply bizarre and unpredictable to a permanent moroseness interspersed with rage fits. In a way it reminded Zevran of the old Nyx, the angry mage who spared his life against common sense; yet this was different. The Antivan orphan knew desperation when he saw it. After beating insurmountable odds to raise an army able to threaten the Blight, the Warden was finally letting herself slip. During the few days of their trip from Denerim, Nyx had let Eamon and Loghain take all important decisions, and it had become increasingly clear that leadership was shifting away from the Grey Wardens.

Riordan's announcement that the horde was headed for Denerim had been the final blow. Nyx made a fool of herself in the war room, first denying the possibility of such an attack, then screaming for the army to depart before it could regroup, and finally slipping into apathy when it became clear that the horde could not be stopped before they reached the city. Riordan and Loghain handled most of the subsequent preparations while she brooded.

What really troubled Zevran was that he could not bring himself to leave. His instinct told him that facing bloodthirsty hordes and an Archdemon was never a good idea; common sense had it that an army assembled hastily under a weak leadership was a recipe for disaster. Yet he had grown accustomed to fighting as part of a small band of brothers who watched each other's back; the thought of the freedom that awaited him, should he choose to leave, was almost scary by comparison. The quintessential loner, Zevran now found himself somewhat afraid of solitude. And then there was the question of the Orlesian…

Zevran deftly ducked as Morrigan barreled past him, her beautiful features set in an expression which mixed anger, scorn and a hint of fear. Zevran shook his head as he cast the witch's gorgeous behind a last, appreciative look. _Another tasty peach going to waste_. Nyx's door was still open after Morrigan's abrupt exit, and he quietly walked to the threshold, pausing to assess the situation.

The Warden sat on the edge of her bed, her head bent as in thought or prayer. The light from the hearth – large enough to roast a whole lamb, Zevran noticed- painted her face in moving, crimson shadows, and Zevran was struck once again at how much she had changed in the recent few weeks. The cheekbones and jaw line were more pronounced, giving her face an energy that belied her sullen attitude. The skin was taut; the almond shape of the eyes was sharper, more elongated, with a rising slant. The irises were immense and reflected the light with a cold, intense silver glint; Zevran could have sworn that they were mostly green when he first met her. The thin, distinctly Elven ears seemed longer, too. But to the assassin it was the body that told a disquieting tale.

Judging by her head's position as she sat on the bed, Zevran estimated Nyx's growth in the past few weeks to at least two inches. Her small frame was now fuller, the shoulders wider; the neck showed thin, wiry muscles. Zevran suspected that the sorceress had gone from a tiny weakling to a decent hand-to-hand opponent in weeks, without any training. Which was quite impossible.

"Zevran." The voice, at least, was unchanged, low and raspy, a quality that Zevran found rather sexy but which tended to unnerve people, especially when the twin silver coins focused on them.

"I see you cannot find sleep, my dear. Would you care for some company? We can keep your door open if you fear for your reputation", Zevran proposed in a light-hearted manner.

"I care about my reputation like you care about modesty, Antivan.", the sorceress rasped without turning her head. Only her un-gloved hand moved, very slowly, caressing the grey leather of her armor in a gesture he may have thought provocative if he did not know better.

"Modesty is vastly overrated, and mainly practiced by those persons who have something to hide", he said cheerfully as he sat on the bed by her side.

"Hm." Nyx was distracted by a speck of dirt on her armor; she wet a fingertip with her tongue and proceeded to rub the stain off the obsessively polished leather. A moment passed before she returned her attention to Zevran. "You don't have to go, you know", she murmured.

He nodded. "But what of the treasure? How can I let you get away with my share and call myself a Crow?"

"Treasures aren't worth throwing your life away, Zev. When I meet the Archdemon… things will get ugly. You might regret your choice then."

Zevran thought for a few seconds, hesitating between several lighthearted answers; none seemed very appropriate. He was left with only the honest one.

"I know", he said simply, "But we have unfinished business in Denerim."

There was a long silence as they both stared into the hearth, finding comfort in the heat and light.

"Was there… anything I should know? Between you and her?" she asked in a surprisingly timid voice. Zevran laughed and shook his head.

"Believe me when I say it is not for want of trying, on my side at least. But alas, she is a very stubborn woman. No…" he paused to address the Warden a mischievous smile, "We had a competition of sorts, each wanting to prove that he was the better rogue. The results were… inconclusive. But I intend to win my bet by rescuing the little minx from the siege of Denerim."

"What did you bet?" Nyx inquired, seeming genuinely interested in something for the first time in days.

Zevran chuckled. "It is a… rather silly bet, and I fear that regardless of the winner, we will now be unable to honor it. Had I lost my bet, I would have had to steal Morrigan's robes, by any means necessary. But Leliana's bet is really not for me to tell; you may ask her when you next meet her."

"When I meet her…" Nyx almost choked on the words. Zevran gave her a resounding pat on the back.

"When you meet her. Have faith, my dear. We will find her, and I will win my bet, of course. It is only a bunch of darkspawn and one antiquated god against the finest rogues in all of Thedas, no?"

"Yeah", the sorceress murmured in a tone that said clearly how little she was convinced by Zevran's forced optimism. She looked at the assassin for the first time since his arrival, a quizzical expression in the silver eyes.

"Could you train me with the blade?" she asked softly.

* * *

"_The gate is breached_!"

The screams from the tower guards found Leliana crawling on all fours amid the smoke from the burning buildings below, scrounging for Darskpawn arrows amongst the dirt and the dead. Her hands were raw from shooting Marjolaine's longbow for hours; she was bleeding from a dozen cuts where enemy shots had nearly pierced her drakeskin armor; and she was splattered with the blood of her less lucky, less well-armed fellow defenders. The fatigue was almost overpowering. She got up wearily, mindful to stay behind the cover of the crenels. Of the hundreds of Denerim volunteers and city guards who manned the walls, only a few dozens still stood, looking every bit as bewildered as she was. 

_Breached at last_, she thought. Breached after a whole night of fighting, a desperate exploit by the Denerim defenders which would be worthy of an epic ballad. But she would not be the one to sing it. All she could think of as she stood on trembling legs was how tired she was, and how good the darkness would feel; just a few minutes longer now...

Sturdy hands caught her shoulders, and she snapped back to consciousness with a little cry of fright; she recognized the man for one of the surviving militiamen, a heavily built, mustachioed fellow whom she guessed may have been a smith, _before_. The smith shouted something in her ear, pointing to the streets below. She caught a few words through the haze of fatigue. _Fall back. Barricades_. She nodded and took one step forward, then two, her body screaming that all she needed was a little rest, that it was safe to lie down and hope for the victors' mercy. Three steps, four, and she staggered down the spiral staircase as fast as she could, emerging at last at the foot of the now useless walls. Runt trotted out of a nearby alcove, wagging his truncated tail as though nothing special was going on. The dog's presence was reassuring, like an anchor of stability in the ambient chaos.

The smoke was much worse in the streets. All buildings within the vicinity of the walls were ablaze from the horde's relentless catapult bombardment. Coughing violently, her eyes and lungs on fire, Leliana started running in what she hoped was the bridges' direction. _Think_. If the city's defenders had not yet lost all fighting spirit, the bridges could be held against the horde for a while. Or she could cross and head for Fort Drakon, the city's last line of defense. Leliana did not really favor that solution; she was not familiar with the Fereldan military doctrine, but an Orlesian commander would not keep the gates of the fort open for long after the city gates were breached.

As Leliana ran further from the walls she became aware of a growing clamor in the streets behind her, the din of a multitude of raucous voices and of thousands of iron-shod feet stomping on the soggy ground. The horde was pouring into the city like a mudslide.

The residents heard it, too. The doors of the buildings around her flung open as panicked families fled from homes promised to the torch. Instants earlier she was running along deserted, ghostly streets; now the terrified crowd threatened to throw her down and stomp her into the ground. Children fell and were trampled on by friends and neighbors; screams of pain and panic echoed through the heavy morning haze. Not too far behind, the dark horde roared in anticipation. There was no reasoning with the crazed mob, and Leliana brutally clawed and shoved her way off the main street; she took to running along almost deserted back alleys, dashing over piles of refuse, occasionally slipping in stinking puddles.

Runt found her track moments later and ran easily by her side. The dog's massive maw was smeared in red blood. Leliana was glad she had lost him from sight during his escape from the crowd; but she was also glad to have him with her.

The alley she was dashing along opened onto the riverside road, and suddenly she was in the open, feeling very exposed and vulnerable. Further East along the tree-planted embankment she could see the massive shape of King's bridge, and before it a spectacle which made her stop dead in her tracks. As she had expected, King's bridge was barricaded, the stone pavement dismantled and hastily piled up to form a makeshift wall; wooden carts and even pieces of furniture were stacked atop the wall to increase its height. The steel armors of the Denerim city guards glinted in the distance. It was a decent enough effort at a barricade, and it would not do her any good.

Unlike what Leliana had hoped, there was no gate or opening of any sort in the barricade. Looking West through the smoke she could make out the outlines of Victory Bridge; the ugly, irregular hump of a barricade was visible there, too. She and the swelling crowd of runaways – she thought she could recognize a few of the city wall's defenders among them- were caught between the river and the approaching horde.

She did not stay to watch the panicked mob assault the barricade or jump into the river. Spinning around, she dashed west along the riverbanks, scanning the garbage- ridden shore. Behind her the mob's clamor rose to a roar as desperate citizens charged the blockade. Running, searching, and after minutes that felt like hours she found what she was looking for: a fisherman's light boat, moored amongst reeds, a thin, low skiff meant to be maneuvered by a single man. Runt hopped on aboard and she hurried to push the flimsy boat into the Drakon's reddish, turbulent water.

As she pulled herself onboard, she heard screams behind her. A group of a dozen men and women ran along the riverbank, waving. She ground her teeth as she pulled on the oars, taking the boat further from the condemned civilians. Every fiber of her being wanted to reach out for them, yet she knew with absolute certitude what would happen if she turned back to help. Further West a similar group was already fighting for another boat, tearing at each other like scavengers around a carcass. The fight only stopped when the fragile boat overturned and sunk with its struggling, screaming cargo.

Leliana let out a moan and rowed faster, going diagonally with the current, tears flowing freely over her face. She could track the devastation's progress through the northern town as building upon building was lit on fire. The horde's clamor rolled over the river like thunder, and suddenly they were on the embankment, every street and alley vomiting a swarm of screaming, deformed shapes. The creatures milled about in apparent chaos for a few seconds, searching for an outlet for their murderous instinct, until the runaway civilians on the riverside ran in terror, back East towards King's Bridge. The scarred, misshapen heads turned in terrifying unison, and the dark host gave chase, flowing along the riverside road like a stream of thick, black oil.

A long lament rose from the crowd before the bridge. Leliana closed her eyes and whispered a verse from the Canticle of Trials, her voice broken by raking sobs.

_Draw your last breath, my friends,  
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.  
Rest at the Maker's right hand,  
And be Forgiven._


	17. Chapter 17: A Bard's last stand

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**A bard's last stand**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

Nyx loathed horses.

The animals were huge, dangerously strong, and shied at her approach as though they could smell the wolf in her. _She _could certainly smell the meat in them. It took forever to find a mount that would carry her, and in the end she had to ride with Bann Teagan on his finely trained charger. The beast loved its master just enough to bear the dark threat it sensed on its back, but it was unnerved and chafed every time Nyx moved or spoke.

Now she was being transported like a baggage, with the human lord's armor scraping her back and his breath hot on the back of her head. His scent was coarse, slightly acrid though not wholly unpleasant, but so mixed with the horse's stench that Nyx got a headache after mere minutes.

Andraste's tits, but the _proximity _was unnerving! As far as Nyx remembered she had only ever willingly allowed two people to come this close to her, and for all she knew they were probably dead or worse. Mostly by her fault. She resisted the impulse to clench her dead fist as bitter anger rose.

The army was crawling around her, a long, winding, infinitely slow column of men, elves and dwarves, the massive forms of Branka's golems lumbering to the front. She had assembled a force to be reckoned with, a power able to contend with the dark horde; yet they would be too late to save the only thing that really mattered. As though summoned by the bitter thought, the Archdemon's whispering voice rose in her mind, triumphant.

_You are too late, little elf. Soon she will be one with us. _

Nyx let out a scream of rage and the warhorse reared, nearly throwing off its master and the scary creature he insisted on transporting.

"In Andraste's name, Warden! Get a hold of yourself!" Teagan exclaimed as he struggled to keep himself and his passenger in the saddle. But Nyx was done with horses.

"Let me down. Now", she hissed in a tone that left no room for discussion.

"Your desires are my command, my Lady", Teagan groaned, trying not to appear too happy, although he could think of nothing at the moment but of his relief at being rid of her. The elf's lithe figure and fair, almost translucent skin may be attractive, in an alien kind of way, but something about the sorceress just made his skin crawl.

Nyx jumped off the horse and landed on the dusty road with feline grace, pausing briefly to marvel at her own agility. Three weeks earlier she would have considered herself lucky to survive the jump with only a broken leg; now she could easily have leapt back into saddle without using her hands. The dread god was decidedly doing a good job, she thought with a bitter smile. She could still see Zevran's half-pleased, half-worried expression as they sparred, the sorceress wielding her blade with increasing speed and precision. The bedroom had finally taken on a reddish tinge as she let Fen'Harel's power trickle through her veins, the assassin's daggers spinning away slowly through the air as she rested her blade onto his neck, careful not to draw blood lest she lost control. She knew that every time she drew from the god's power, she allowed _Him_ to devour a little more of her substance, to be replaced by something else.

So be it. Nyx had little hope left to save Leliana, but she would have her revenge; if not upon the Dread Wolf, at least upon the Archdemon. She would hurl the tainted Old God's soul into the Grey Forest and meet her own end in the process.

And may Fen'Harel choke on both their carcasses.

* * *

Leliana reached the river banks minutes before the horde broke through the eastern bridges. She climbed the steep embankments as fast as she could, sand and boulders giving way under her weight, conspiring to send her back to the river, to be washed ashore and rot downstream with the city's garbage. Runt struggled at her side, his claws plowing through the unstable ground. They managed to haul each other up and paused at the top to catch their breath, the mabari showing signs of fatigue for the first time. They had drifted quite far down the Drakon's course and were now close to the Port. The great steel portcullis was lowered, forbidding escape by sea. The city was a deathtrap. Leliana wondered whether Alistair's boat had made it through in time. She hoped it had; the thought of another brave soul lost to the darkspawn was too painful to contemplate.

A shadow passed over the sun, and she covered her head reflexively, unable to move or think for a second as palpable, seething malice assaulted her mind. Great leathery wings flapped with the sound of a sail in a hurricane as the dragon barreled past, leaving the woman and her dog to their wretched destinies. The huge, winged shadow gained altitude, veered smoothly as it reached Market Bridge and dived onto the blockade. The bridge erupted in twisting purple flames. Small, armored silhouettes writhed within the inferno with vague, liquid movements.

When the flames abated, the horde flowed over the barricade like the tide over a sand fort.

Leliana ran towards the Docks, giving up any idea of joining Fort Drakon since that course would take her through the approaching horde. She paused by the docks, panting, stars dancing before her eyes. She knew that there was nowhere else to run; all she could hope for was to make her last stand worth singing. If only she had something to write. Kneeling on the muddy ground, she unclasped the small Andrastian medallion from her neck and twined its silver chain around Runt's worn leather collar. The hound whined softly, a question in his yellow eyes.

"Runt. Good boy. I want you to go and give this to your mistress. But you cannot fight on your way, understood? You just run like the wind, and stop for nothing. Run, boy! Find Nyx!"

The mabari hesitated and looked at the empty streets, growling quietly. Leliana scratched the rough fur on his neck affectionately. "I will be all right", she lied as she pushed him away gently. Runt threw her a last, reproachful look and trotted away, his massive shape soon disappearing around a corner.

"Maker's speed, my friend", she whispered.

Scanning her surroundings, she saw a pale sunray filtering through the burning city's smoke, illuminating the thin, elegant spire of a nearby Chantry. Leliana smiled.

"I am coming."

* * *

There were twelve sisters in the Chantry, a mere chapel attached to what had once been a bigger complex, but was now used as a warehouse by Denerim's clergy. None of them had weapons of any sort, and they cast fearful looks at her armor and equipment, but the Revered Mother let her in with apparent gratitude.

Leliana helped them barricade the thick, bleached oak doors as best she could, working quickly and efficiently with limited materials, knowing that in the end the darkspawn would break in all too easily. But this was a good place to make her last stand; a good death for one such as her.

When it was finished and there was nothing more she could do, she knelt on the stone floor before the altar, carefully rested her bow at her side and started praying, indifferent to the swelling clamor of the horde.

She had reached the fourteenth verse of the Canticle of Trials when the assault began.

It started with shuffling footsteps, loud banging on the doors, and the frustrated grunts of the darkspawn. In mere moments the grunts swelled to an enraged chorus of shrieks and howls, the banging on the door escalating into frenzy. The Chantry's high, narrow windows exploded under a rain of stones, arrows and sling rounds. One of the nuns fell, a barbed arrowhead sticking out of her mouth at a weird angle. The others clung to each other for comfort, the bravest singing the Chant with quavering voices.

Leliana calmly stood and faced the doors. Marjolaine's bow was cold and heavy in her hand, a symbol of a past she had long sought to erase, both cherished and hated. Now was the time to forgive and to forget. Now was the time to atone. Standing very still before the altar, indifferent to the deluge of projectiles which poured at her feet, Leliana lifted the bow. Large cracks appeared in the doors, the heads of wicked axes chewing fast through the wood, and still she waited.

The doors finally burst open in a shower of splintered wood, and the horde rushed in. Leliana's first shot punched clean through a charging genlock's skull; the heavy arrow ended its course in another creature's mouth, shredded flesh and shattered teeth flying.

_Five_.

Another arrow was in her hand in the blink of an eye, and another creature crumbled to the floor, clutching its throat.

_Four_.

The creatures poured into the holy shrine, spreading out in a wide circle around the altar and its lonely defender, menacing, but not attacking yet. The nuns cowered in the eye of the storm. A Hurlock fell, black fletching quivering where the creature's left eye used to be.

_Three_.

Three more arrows to go, and Leliana's calm shattered like glass when she saw them enter, bearing clubs and nets made of thick rope. Her hand shook as she took the next shot, and she missed her target, the arrow embedding itself harmlessly in another creature's shield. _No! Please, Maker, no_, was all she could think as the hunters grunted and squealed in anticipation. Two more rapid shots, her feverish hand reaching for the arrows, finding none, her mind freezing as she reached, reached into the empty quaver.

_No_. _Please_.

She ducked the first net, but not the second, and the heavy lead weights dragged her to the ground, fumbling to draw her blades. The clubs bore down on her, and there was only darkness.

* * *

The falcon circled the outskirts of the dying city, mindful of the malice she felt somewhere, not too close, in front of her. She knew that the beast and its cohorts could feel her as well, but she was confident in her ability to retreat to the approaching army if the need arose. Somehow she knew that the Archdemon would not take the bait like Flemeth had.

The city was a heartrending sight. The great gates lay in ruins, and a steady stream of darkspawn poured out of them, carrying plunder back to the gaping chasm that led to the Deep Roads. Mainly raw, bleeding meat, her falcon eyes informed her. The creatures moved unhurriedly, unaware of the threat which inched its way down the West Road. She would have to inform Loghain to dispatch a force to cut off potential reinforcements from the Deep Roads.

Here and there along the road the darkspawn pushed great cages set on top of heavy wooden carts. The falcon inspected those eagerly, but she recognized none of the crying or sullen faces. Those were already beyond salvation; she could feel the taint in them, whispering, transforming, devouring.

_So many... _Maybe she should have felt pity, but she did not; there was only relief at not finding the bard's familiar face amongst the damned.

Most of the area between the northern walls and the river was reduced to smoldering rubble. The only movement came from the occasional collapsing wall and the small bands of darkspawn which combed through the ruins, looking for survivors and whatever plunder those creatures might care for. The falcon stayed clear of those. She had to fly low to stay under Denerim's ever thickening shroud of smoke, and arrows from the roving bands were a very real threat. Luckily, spending their lives in stinking tunnels meant that darkspawn archers had little practice against flying targets.

The bulk of the horde appeared to have moved to the other side of the river; small pockets of resistance still held off the darkspawn in increasingly isolated locations, but the assault appeared concentrated on Fort Drakon. Dust, flames and a rumbling sound surrounded the fortress. The falcon hesitated at the edge of the river; she felt the Archdemon's presence ahead of her as surely as she could feel her own heart beating. She slowly circled the river banks, torn between contradictory impulses, carefully scanning the piles of corpses before the bridges and the butcher squads that worked on them. Better not to think about what would happen if she discovered her red mane among the heaps of discarded heads; she would probably not have the strength to leave and do her duty.

_Fuck duty. I never asked for any of this._

A few beats of her powerful wings and she was on the other side, dashing above the swarming streets, raising a clamor and a storm of projectiles as she went. As long as she flew fast across the narrow streets and not along them, the archers would not have the time to aim properly. Well, probably not.

Most buildings here were relatively intact; for now the darkspawn appeared to plunder and slaughter in a somewhat restrained, methodical fashion that was even scarier than their customary frenzy. _Harvesting_, she thought. Denerim was but the first step; here, the future of the Blight was being carefully prepared. Maybe the Archdemons learned from their predecessors' mistakes just like the Wardens did. That was not a comforting thought.

The falcon flew as high and fast as she could under the smoke ceiling, her piercing eyes frantically scanning the streets below, the dwindling pockets of resistance, the piles of corpses, finding nothing. She flew over the desecrated Chantry in the dock district, her gaze pausing briefly on the oddly familiar edifice; but not even a falcon's eyes can see through a tiled roof, and she moved on, searching with increasing desperation.

She felt the great dragon's roar in her blood before she heard it. A flicker of otherworldly, purple light briefly illuminated the rooftops under her as it disengaged from the fight for Fort Drakon. It was coming for her at last. She could not fight it; not now, not yet.

The falcon bid hope goodbye with a strident call. Veering North, she hurried back across the river and the ruined capital. The great dragon did not give chase beyond the city walls. As she flew away from Denerim, the Archdemon's farewell singed through her mind.

_She is one of us, now. Join us, little sister. Join us in the dark, where we lie in despair._

Did the beast read the Warden's oath in her mind, or did the ancient Wardens coin the phrase as a counterpart to the first Archdemon's unholy summon?

It didn't matter. She willed her answer through every fiber of her being, certain that the tainted dragon could hear it.

_I am coming for you. _


	18. Chapter 18: Hespith's song

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Hespith's song**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related lore/ characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

Rated Mature because Darkspawn are big meanies.

Hespith's monologue lifted from the DA Wikia, again. Darkest lines in the game, and IMHO among the best.

I am not so happy with the structure here, but… Well, I have been struggling with this for a while now so this is pretty much it.

End of a long rant.

* * *

_"First day, they come and catch everyone."_

She lies in the Admiralty's dungeon, broken by the interminable day of torture. They brought in a healer in the end, to reset the bones and mend the torn flesh and paint a fresh layer of skin over the burns. They brought in a healer just so she will be whole again for the crowd to watch tomorrow, when they tie her hands and feet to the horses.

The guards come up behind the rusty bars. They point at her and discuss heatedly, their voices low and grunting through the haze of her exhaustion. She knows that they are arguing over who will take her first. She remembers; it will be the fat one, the one they call Boulot. Then Blue Shirt, then Broken Teeth, then Weasel Face. The young one will be last, and he will be the worst, because he does not really like raping women and it will take forever.

She has found Louis' lockpick and garrote after they threw her back into her cell; it appears someone at the Admiralty owes him a favor. Everybody owes him a favor. She has to wait until the night shift to make her escape, and so she will endure and bid her time. Boulot and Broken Teeth will never see the sun rise again and she will slowly make her way to Ferelden, hiding during daytime and traveling by night.

Leliana knows that this is just a horrible dream, a vision of her darkest hours, but when the men's grunting voices grow louder and more animal and the dream starts to dissolve, she tries desperately to delay her entrance into reality.

* * *

There are big maps and small chips of colored wood that represent the army. Riordan, Loghain and Eamon talk and talk and talk and she cannot stand it and runs away from their stupid game lest she hurts them.

Big boulders are nearby, carried here by a glacier long before the foundation of Arlathan. She summons fire and watches as the boulders turn to glass and the glass itself boils and ignites.

This time it is her mind that reaches for the Archdemon's faraway presence.

_Anything can burn. Soon I will show you._

Nyx does not wear Leliana's glove any more. The silver lines in the brown, shriveled flesh reflect the blaze like twisting streaks of blood.

* * *

"_Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat."_

First they took the old Revered Mother, then the wounded one. Susan, she thinks the girl's name was Susan. The Revered Mother did not scream when they put her head on the chopping block; Susan did. Now their meat is neatly stacked in a corner of the chapel.

It was quick. Leliana knows that she will not be so lucky.

Her hands are tied behind her back, through the bars of the great wooden cage. All the others are tied in the same way, ensuring that they will not take their own lives.

She can see the darkspawn, the tall, raw-looking caricatures of humans called hurlocks, maybe twenty of them, busying themselves in the desecrated chapel. They have defiled Andraste's statue, as they often defile effigies of the human form, adding bits and pieces to turn it into a crude image of a dragon.

They have collected the blood from the butchering in big clay bowls, and they spread it, half clotted, over the altar.

* * *

"_Third day, the men are all gnawed on again."_

The Fade scavenger, many-eyed and nebulous, rips a freshly grown strand of flesh from the condemned's glistening spine; the picked bones under its claws move feebly, moaning. Suddenly the scavenger rears its oddly shaped head, listening; the bristles on its back quaver.

The Grey Forest trembles and the starless sky grows darker. The scavenger runs in terror and _He_ approaches, crushing the wizened trees like grass. From the unfathomable abyss that is Fen'Harel's mind, a thought is born.

_Arise. _

* * *

She stands before the ruined city at last, Ferelden's army silent around her. She can feel their anger at the devastation before them; she feeds on this anger, the dark flames in her veins hungry, eager to consume anything that stands in their way.

Anora speaks and the army bellows in answer.

_For the Grey Wardens!_

All fall silent as Nyx steps beside the Queen and raises her short, curved blade. She never was one for speeches; she pours all of her rage and hatred into one definitive word, one definitive scream. Thousands of throats repeat her call, over and over as the army stirs, gathers momentum and charges towards the gates.

_DEATH!_

* * *

"_Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate."_

She remembers that conversation they had in the Deep Roads, after they killed the lumbering, writhing horror that had been a dwarf woman. Nyx asked her a very simple question, a strange mix of dread and irony in her green and silver eyes.

"What do you think happened to her soul, Chantry girl?"

Leliana did not know the answer then, but she will know soon enough. There is bitter irony in the fact that in all these months fighting the darkspawn and flirting with death, she was almost always serene. Even in the thick of a fight she fancied that she could feel the Maker's approving gaze on her.

But now the Maker is gone; there is nothing but cold, debilitating fear.

* * *

She stands at the gates and the darkspawn shriek, writhe and burn. A squadron of Redcliffe knights protects her from stray arrows; she can smell their fear and disgust at the smoldering desolation she leaves in her wake. Loghain, Sten and Oghren are less squeamish and finish the wounded at the periphery.

Zevran's bow sings by Nyx's side; she casts him a quick glance and something passes between the elves, a signal too subtle for human senses to perceive; an acknowledgment of their shared nature.

They go back to the task, smiling as they slaughter.

* * *

"_Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn."_

They unbind one of the nuns, Leliana doesn't know her name, and they drag her screaming towards the altar. They lay the sister on her back on the bloodied stone; it takes four of them to hold her down as she fights with the energy of despair. The other hurlocks gather around the altar, their inhuman voices rising to cover their victim's in a demonic chorus.

Leliana is grateful that they block her sight as the clamor reaches a paroxysm, then abruptly stops. One of the creatures stumbles away from the circle, black blood gushing from its mouth; it totters for a few seconds and falls face first, its armor clanging loudly on the chapel's stone floor.

For a second she thinks that rescue has arrived, that her Warden has finally come for her, that the nightmare is over, and her heart pounds furiously against the cage of her ribs.

Then the hurlocks drag the unconscious victim back to the cage, and she sees the thick, black blood all over the woman's face and hair. She remembers Hespith and she spills the contents of her stomach onto the filthy floor of the cage, retching until there is no strength left in her.

They tie the sister back in place and drag out another screaming victim.

* * *

"_Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams."_

He sits perfectly still on his plain wooden chair in the chapel's small courtyard, as he always does.

For many years the sisters have fed and cleaned his body, healed his bedsores, done their charitable duty even though they knew what a stain on the Chantry's honor he once was. To their eyes he was a reminder of the Maker's wrath at the unjust, and if the Maker saw fit to leave a flicker of life in his carcass, nobody would argue with that. Anyone could see that his mind was gone.

The darkspawn ignore his body when they comb the disaffected orphanage in search of the living. He has no soul that they could torment, and his flesh is poisoned by a darkness that rivals theirs. Now they are busy in the chapel.

At the god's summon, he opens eyes of liquid silver. The molten metal immediately starts trickling down his bloated cheeks and into the corners of his mouth. The singed skin smokes, blisters, and heals almost instantly.

He rises to listen to the screams echoing through the chapel's door. His thick lips curve in a vague, idiotic grin; the screams of the nuns soothe the pain of the molten silver broiling his insides.

He closes his eyes and waits patiently for one, particular scream to rise.

* * *

"_Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew."_

The cage reeks of blood and vomit; there are only three of them left intact. Those who have already received the taint are unconscious, muttering vaguely in their sleep. She expects that they will awake hungry.

She has been fighting against her bonds for what feels like hours, but the ropes are thick, the knots tight. She knows that she will not have enough time to free herself before the creatures come for her, even if they keep her for last.

When the darkspawn come to the cage Leliana closes her eyes and resists the urge to pray that they take another. Rough hands fumble with her bonds and she screams and kicks with all her strength, the heel of her boot crushing bones and jagged teeth and one falls, but the others are all over her and she is dragged, screaming, to the desecrated altar.

They hold her down and start bellowing in their inhuman voices, and she clamps her mouth and eyes shut with all her might, knowing that it will do no good.

* * *

The ogre towers over the puny elf and reaches to squash her. Something stings its eye and the beast hesitates, rocking back and forth as a tingling sensation spreads along its veins, blocking out the Archdemon's voice.

When the tiny, lovely Mistress speaks, the ogre roars with pleasure and charges its bewildered kin.

When she is done cleaning the marketplace, Nyx has the ogre disembowel itself with a dead knight's sword.

* * *

"_Eighth day, we hated as she is violated."_

She doesn't hear the courtyard door fling open.

Leliana feels a gust of wind on her face as something large swings through the air, sweeping through the hurlocks on her side with three successive, thundering thwacks, followed by the clash of armored bodies on the wall a long, long distance away. Suddenly her hands and feet are free as her captors growl and scramble to face the newcomer.

She rolls down the altar and onto the stone pavement, scans her surroundings for a weapon. A brown-clad figure walks past her – those could be Chantry robes-, and the air resounds with more thuds and the grunting challenges of the darkspawn.

There is a serrated sword on the ground fifteen feet to her right, and she makes a dash for it, rolls quickly and gets up in a fighting stance. Her mind is still and focused, there is no Maker, there is only _hatred_. A screaming creature charges her, sword and shield held high. She runs to meet it, and at the last second she switches her sword hand and lunges low and to the side, slicing through the creature's knee as it stumbles past.

The hurlock paints a glistening black trail as it skids on the polished floor; she has no time for a clean kill as she ducks under her second opponent's claymore, swiftly steps inside the creature's guard and slides her own blade across its deformed hands. The sword clangs on the floor in a rain of severed fingers; she kicks the shocked hurlock's legs from under it before she drives her blade through the screeching mouth. She smirks as she twists the sword.

Leliana walks swiftly to her first opponent, the creature still clutching its half-severed leg, and she hacks at the grunting form until it moves no more.

* * *

"_Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin."_

Ser Rowell really hates his life these days. Not only has he left the safety of his beloved fief, five miles North of Redcliffe, to rush to the rescue of those Denerim city snobs; but on top of all his squadron is now tasked with protecting a bloody _elf_.

Not that there's anything wrong with knife-ears; Ser Rowell doesn't mind them when they stay in their proper place, and it's hard to find humans to clean the stool pits anyway.

But calling _that_ a Grey Warden, and placing Redcliffe's knights, the salt of the earth, under its command… The Arl's illness has damaged his brain, that's what. Ferelden is going to the dogs, with elven captains and maleficarum lording it over proper folks.

They slowly cross over the ruined barricade on the bridge; brittle, blackened bones crumble under Ser Rowell's heavy boot and he stumbles, cursing under his breath. The she-elf throws him a quick glance, unnatural eyes glinting under the boyish crew-cut, and he could swear that he sees hunger in her gaze. It figures; everybody knows that elf wenches are always hungry for human cock.

He sees the darkspawn just before the arrows start whistling; he knows that his role is to shield their diminutive leader, but he delays his move – he wants to believe this is just hesitation- for a split second.

The elf falls with a yelp of pain, a black arrow vibrating in her shoulder, and Ser Rowell finally steps in front of her, knees bent, shield held high and angled to form an impenetrable barrier, guilt already gnawing at him for failing to do his duty.

The last thing Ser Rowell feels is the elf's tiny hand grabbing his ankle. Then his brain shuts down as his blood is forced out of his body, gushing through his eyes, nose and mouth, spiraling like a crazed serpent before it evaporates in mid-air.

Nyx jumps to her feet, snarling.

* * *

"_Now she does feast, as she's become the beast."_


	19. Chapter 19: Sin

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Sin**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

Slightly morbid matter suggested ahead, BTW.

* * *

It was over.

The chapel was eerily quiet, save for the hushed sobs of the two remaining sisters and an odd, high-pitched humming from her unknown rescuer. Leliana hurried to free the prisoners, murmuring useless encouragements. They hardly acknowledged her presence, and she wondered if they would ever recover from the horror they witnessed.

She turned her gaze to the ashen, black-smeared faces of the unconscious ones and the realization of what she had almost become overwhelmed her; her legs buckled under her, she fell on her knees and clutched her face, fighting to keep her sanity as she shook violently.

After a while Marjolaine's training kicked in, blocking all emotions, and Leliana summoned enough strength to stand. She hesitated before she left the cage; real mercy would have her slit the tainted ones' throats while they slumbered.

Leliana could not bring herself to do it. She could do nothing more for them.

She turned her attention to the immobile figure in the plain, brown robes - those were not priestly robes as she previously assumed. He appeared to be a corpulent man of average size, about fifty, his skin a pasty white, his head and cheeks covered in grey stubble. His eyes were closed and he hummed softly, as in prayer. His right hand rested on a bronze statue of Andraste, the idol's head almost level with his shoulder.

Leliana's eyes grew wide as she noticed the impact marks on the massive pedestal; the black, wet stains; the pale bone shards. Suddenly she didn't really want to come too close. Still, she owed him her life and more…

She stepped forward reluctantly, offering a hand.

"Thank you, Ser", she said. Her voice came very hoarse; her throat felt raw. She realized that she had never screamed like she did when the hurlocks dragged her, not even when the torturers snapped her legs in Orlais.

There came a low, hissing sound as the man's eyes opened and rivulets of molten metal trickled from the silver eyes. The smell of singed flesh made Leliana's stomach stir in hunger, an incongruous reminder that she had not eaten in a while. She stumbled back, her hand finding the hilt of her crude, blood-caked darkspawn sword.

The man opened his mouth to speak; she could vaguely glimpse silver in there too. He spoke in a strangely high-pitched, singsong voice, his lips curled in an idiot's smile.

"She must come with me. We have an appointment." When he stopped talking, she saw small wisps of smoke raise at the corners of his mouth where the burning tears streamed in.

"Maker's breath…" she whispered in shock.

The crying, grinning man shook his head enthusiastically; droplets of liquid silver splashed on the stone floor and froze, forming small, cold stars amid dark blood stains.

"No! No! No! Three no's! Not that one! Not the one who makes. What is the point? My Lord unmakes _all_."

Leliana took another step back. "I don't understand," she said; her sword slid halfway out of its scabbard.

"What _is_ the point?" the man repeated in his absurd falsetto voice, and she thought of a very big, very scary parrot.

He raised a hand, palm out, in a conciliatory gesture. "I can take her to the Wolf Born, His dearest child, oh yes. Would she like that?"

"The Wolf? Are you… Are you talking about Nyx?" Leliana tried to contain her emotion, but sudden hope turned her stomach into one big, knotted ball.

Fat jowls trembled with delight. "Yes, she likes it, clearly. Oh, let us depart, yes, please, let us run happily through the city, shall we? We cannot be late, does she know? It is a very important appointment, oooooh yes yes yes THREE YESSES!"

Leliana waited until the chuckling abates to ask the question that burned her lips.

"Do you know where Nyx is?"

He licked off a metal tear with the tip of his tongue; the flesh sizzled merrily. "Where Urthemiel calls, of course. Where else? Where where where, three _weres_, funny…"

She hesitated. The thing was evil; there was no doubt about that. On the other hand, she did not have much of a choice. Judging by the smashed Hurlock carcasses strewn around the chapel, this… _thing_ packed a serious wallop; in the short term, it was better to have him as an ally than a foe. She would lose him at the first opportunity.

"Why did you help me? Who are you?"

For the first time, the moronic grin left the man's face, replaced with utter confusion as he wondered, searched for a name, a trace of identity, a memory, _something_ that was not devoured. He found something at last, refined and polished like a black gem by the years of agony, and he spit it out in delight.

"Sin."

* * *

The alienage was mostly empty and strangely quiet after the din and chaos of battle. Nyx scanned the deserted shanties for targets and found none. This couldn't be good; wasn't she meant to kill darkspawn or something? She could hear some in the distance, though, and she tottered towards the sound.

There was a big tree and an elf. The elf's name was Shianni and they had met before, when Nyx slaughtered those pesky Tevinter in the Alienage. Memories of the massacre felt good. Some Tevinter guys had done something bad, a long time ago; something she could almost remember, but not quite.

The elf had red hair and white skin, and for some reason this made the sorceress want to be nice to her and comfort her. The elf was also a sniveling whelp, a disgrace to the ancients' blood. Nyx felt very confused. She yelled at the red-haired elf and the woman recoiled in shock, then ran to a shoddily built barricade with her companions, shooting flimsy darts with their bows.

Only when the ogre crashed through the wooden gates did the Wolf Born remember her purpose.

She raised her short sword and ran her tongue along the edge, tasting her own blood, mixed with the clotted darkspawn blood on the blade. Same bitter, rotten taste…

Thin, red mist hovered before her eyes and she willed it to become a flower, its invisible petals extending around and through the approaching wave of darkspawn. When she clenched her dead hand, the flower closed smoothly around the creatures and they just stood there, twitching, their eyes rolling in panic as they slowly suffocated.

The qunari was in her way and she flung him aside like a toy. She ran among the dying creatures and slashed in blind fury, the air around her a whirlwind of black blood and severed limbs, the dark flames whispering their approval as they fed. When it was over, and the ground was black and covered in glistening chunks, she looked up and saw Fort Drakon's tower, beckoning in the distance. She rushed on, following the flames' call.

She felt the great dragon's presence just as she finished crossing the stinking moat which separated the alienage from proper folks' abodes. She leapt forward with catlike speed and the bridge behind her erupted in flames, groaned and collapsed into the filthy water. Zevran and her escort were still on the other side.

That was just as well. Traveling with her was unhealthy these days.

* * *

They stuck to back alleys as they ran uphill towards Fort Drakon. Here and there they chanced upon small bands of marauding darkspawn, but most of the creatures appeared to have run to meet the incoming Fereldan armies.

Leliana had hoped to travel as discreetly as possible, but apparently discretion was _not_ her lumbering companion's forte. In the beginning she tried to dissuade him from singing aloud every time the fancy took him, only to be comforted in her opinion that Sin was as dumb as a doorknob. Time and again she jumped at the sound of his delighted, high-pitched voice celebrating such fascinating discoveries as corpses, corpses and more corpses. The guy really had a thing for corpses. Right now he was brailing about a headless man. Lovely…

A familiar whistling sound and Leliana threw herself to the ground; the arrows missed her, save for one which was deflected by the thick drake scales on her shoulder. She rolled behind the cover of a barrel that must have allowed the local residents to collect rainwater, and crouched there, waiting for Sin to do his thing.

Heavy footsteps running past her, the rustle of tattered robes as the abomination rushed the darkspawn archers. The twang of several useless shots, the genlock archers erupting in panicked squeals. Crushing sounds, heavy thuds, the last one strongest as Holy Andraste's massive pedestal smashed through a body and buried deep into the spongy ground.

Leliana shot a careful glance above her cover, just in time to see Sin rip out the last arrow from his chest, the shaft burning already, the crude iron head glowing a dull red. He smiled as he patted his smoking robes, and the same, faint glow was in his mouth.

"Shall we go", he said.

She was under no illusion that she could decline.

* * *

Riordan's soul was at peace during the long, long fall. He had done all he could; now the Blight was in others' hands. His last thought was for Duncan; he hoped there was chilled white wine where his brother in arms waited for him.

* * *

Zevran found the mabari in a dark lane as he scouted for a way around the darkspawn barricades. Runt whined as he came closer, and he saw the wicked steel jaws around the animal's leg.

Zevran whistled softly.

"You, my friend, are one lucky son of a bitch."

He knelt by the panting animal and gently pried the trap open, then grimaced as he examined the wound. _Well, maybe not that lucky_. Splintered bones were clearly visible amidst the shredded flesh; smart though he was, Runt had probably struggled against the trap a little too hard.

Zevran thought of his poison flasks; he had just the one for a crippled warrior, a drug that would take away the pain and still the heart in minutes. Then he saw the chain twined in the dog's collar. The silver medallion reminded him of good laughs, stolen glances at the ladies' bath, and the way the Orlesian slammed him into the ground as he was about to stab Nyx, months ago. Good times…

He worked quickly and with a precision that would have honored a surgeon, cleaning the wound, dressing it and using a broken arrow to make a splint. Being injured was part of being a Crow, and wounded Crows could only count on their own talent.

When it was done the dog got up hesitantly on three legs, a question in its yellow eyes.

Zevran took a deep breath. He was about to break his oath and the Warden may well kill him for this. Unless he succeeded, in which case she would be so indebted to him that she might give him just about anything he asked for. And he could ask for a lot.

"Find Leliana," he told the waiting hound.

* * *

The elven archers unleashed a volley of arrows so thick that the Palace square was obscured for a second; dozens of grunting forms fell. The bulk of the darkspawn took cover behind the hastily built barricades they had seized hours before. Another volley, and more black mingled with the Palace Guards' spilled crimson.

Behind the elven lines the Wolf Born felt a pull in the Fade as two small, stinking swirls of grey light, the darkspawn equivalent of mages, prepared to unleash a pestilence upon her troops. She reacted instinctively, growling as her spirit snapped towards the thin, singing strings that linked the emissaries' primitive minds to the Beyond. The creatures' tiny brains fizzled and died, sending out a few last, incoherent impressions: the beauty of the Archdemon's song; the terror of being born in the dark; the taste of uncooked human flesh.

She licked her lips.

"There are too many of them, Warden. We need to wait for reinforcements."

The Wolf Born turned and looked at the worthless, whimpering Dalish captain with cold, glinting eyes; dark flames whispered in her veins. The whelp moaned once, very feebly, when her blood took over.

Then he stood fierce and proud, like an elven warrior of old, and led the charge.

* * *

Sin's heavy footsteps suddenly stopped and Leliana turned in alarm, certain that they had run into yet another band of darkspawn stragglers. But he simply stood there on the side of the narrow, filth-ridden alley, his inhuman silver gaze fixed on a spot in a doorway. The abomination's face was a mask of confusion and, Leliana thought, something else…

_Fear? Greed?_

Knowing that she would regret this, she walked back slowly and silently; there was something in the doorway, small and brown, maybe a pile of discarded rags. _Sure_, a little voice in her head chimed in, _Big Crazy is in love with a pile of rags. Fat chance._ Sin took no notice of her and took one step towards the doorway, trembling slightly, the flaming tears streaming faster into his gaping mouth.

Closer now and she saw it clearly, the dead body of an elven child, improbable this far from the alienage, the tiny face very pale under a shock of black hair, the eyes wide open and glassy; a long, crude arrow protruded from the gut. Flies buzzed happily around the corpse.

The resemblance overwhelmed her and she covered her mouth with her hand just in time to muffle a cry of surprise, trying to keep calm, telling herself that this was just another random victim of the Blight, that there was nothing she could do about it, and that this was _not_ her Warden.

Sin took another step towards the corpse and Leliana suddenly realized that he, too, saw the resemblance. But the insanity on his face warned her not to ask. Slowly, carefully, she backed off from the sickening scene, slipped into a side alley and started running on stiff, heavy legs. She was free at last.

It was better, perhaps, that she should not witness the final act of Sin's macabre interlude; how he crouched by the tiny corpse, greed finally overcoming fear, and reached for the dead face; how the flesh boiled off from his hand as he reached, and how the very bones glowed red and crumbled.

Leliana only heard his howl of pain and frustration, far behind her, and ran faster.


	20. Chapter 20: Betrothal

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Betrothal**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

Loghain Mac Tir stopped before the gates of Fort Drakon and motioned for his Redcliffe knights escort to halt while he examined the battlefield. _Not a battlefield anymore_, he corrected himself. _More like a graveyard_.

The grounds before the gate were littered with corpses, most of them darkspawn. Scattered here and there were the bodies of elven archers, in surprisingly small numbers considering the scale of the battle which must have unfolded minutes earlier. He saw the big Qunari shake his head; the giant apparently shared his analysis of the situation.

As he walked up the short flight of steps to the fortress' scorched gate, Loghain realized what else bothered him. He turned once again to examine the scores of dead bodies. The massacre, it seemed, had been an astonishingly clean one; there was not one drop of blood to be seen.

* * *

Zevran almost bumped into his mark when he made the corner of Gold Street; the Orlesian's blade may well have taken his head his head off, too, but for Runt's happy bark.

As it were, the serrated edge merely grazed his blond hair, and he found himself staring at a very pleasant set of leather-covered, furiously heaving breasts.

"Zev?" Leliana's voice was husky, hardly audible, like someone who has spent the night singing -or screaming- her lungs off. She looked terrible, too, bloodied and haggard and scared out of her wits.

"I see you have been partying hard. So cruel of you, not sending me an invitation."

The bard's lips trembled a little, as though she hesitated between tears and laughter; in the end she let out a hushed laugh as she hugged him.

"Maker, Zev, but it's good to see you!"

"Believe me, I taste even better…" Zevran blurted automatically; he _had_ to stay true to his unfeeling sex machine image, after all. Privately, he was quite the happy assassin.

From somewhere down the deserted street there came a crashing sound, and Leliana jumped, fear coming back to her blue eyes.

"Hurry", she whispered as she grabbed his shoulder, shoved him forward, and started running in Fort Drakon's direction.

"Well, so much for the hero's reward", he sighed, and hurried by her side.

* * *

The Dalish captain had forgotten his fear, his doubts, even his own name. All around him in the thickening red mist, his men snarled and howled as they cut a bloody trail through the dark corridors of the overrun fortress. His heart swelled with pride as he massacred in the name of the last of the Elven Gods.

The flash of a darkspawn blade and he fell on his face, the pain in his gut throbbing and white-hot, his hands clawing at the cold stone pavement, his strength draining fast.

The last thing he saw was the red mist, swirling and extending hungry tendrils.

What awakened, rose and joined the battle was… different.

* * *

Flesh, bone and metal slowly sprouted from Sin's charred stump as he dashed along Gold Street. He had to be swift; the Dread Lord was waiting for His priest to celebrate the Betrothal.

* * *

_So this is Hell_, Loghain thought as he stepped into the pandemonium. Fair enough; he knew that he deserved no less.

Fort Drakon's flat roof was overrun by a reddish haze which swirled oddly in the still evening air. Within the mist, indistinct figures fought and died in a maelstrom of grunts, howls and screams, none of which sounded human. Deeper yet he could glimpse the flicker of flames and the shimmering of mystical energies.

The great dragon's roar thundered above the infernal din, deafening, filling his heart with cold terror. He felt the elite knights of Redcliffe flinch behind him, and he turned to address them a look that said unequivocally: _if you fail me, the Archdemon will be the last of your concerns_. The dwarf and the qunari returned his dark look and nodded.

With a battle cry that almost rivaled the Archdemon's roar, Loghain charged into the mist.

* * *

Huddled in a corner of her own mind while her body wielded divine power, Nyx was starting to feel scared.

She was not scared of losing control any more. With the loss of Leliana she had relinquished all hope of cheating her destiny, and now she just let the Dread God massacre as he saw fit. Right now, the god's bloodlust was directed at the Archdemon, and that was good enough for her. Whatever strength was left in her she reserved for the final moment, when she would try to regain control long enough to strike at the dragon.

She was not scared of the dead, rallying around her as more elves and darkspawn fell and were animated by Fen'Harel. The magic in itself was not particularly complex, and the only difference between the god's spell and the trick she had learned to perform on dead rats was in the magnitude of the power pool He drew from.

And she was not really scared of the Archdemon, not any more, because the roaring dragon looked more and more like a cornered, desperate animal. It was losing the battle, slowly, and the splendor of its Fade aura was starting to wane. She almost pitied the Old God imprisoned in its corrupted flesh; awakened only to be twisted, brought here in this foreign land and time, and sacrificed. The story felt disturbingly familiar.

But as the battle raged on and the tainted dragon weakened under a constant rain of spells and arrows, Nyx started to doubt that the Archdemon's soul would give her the oblivion she sought.

* * *

They heard the clang as he broke through the lower door, then the sound of footsteps, heavy and impossibly fast behind them in the spiraling staircase, echoing like the frenzied beat of a great drum. Leliana missed a step, fell with a short cry of pain and struggled to get up, her sprained wrist refusing to bear her weight. Zevran helped her up; he was starting to feel seriously worried about their pursuer.

"_Cazzo_, Leliana, what _is_ that thing? It just blasted through an iron door!"

"No time. Please, we must warn Nyx. He's coming for her!"

Of the bard's serene composure there was nothing left; yet filth, exhaustion and terror could not extinguish the flame Zevran saw in the blue eyes. Hope was a tenacious beast indeed.

He shook his head.

"I think not. You go and warn her; I'll stay here and see what our new friend is made of."

Leliana opened her mouth to stay something, then simply nodded and scrambled up the stone steps as fast as her trembling legs allowed her. Runt hopped valiantly after the redhead.

_Maker be blessed for steep staircases and Orlesian butt crease_, Zevran thought as he laid his bow on the floor, drew his daggers and checked the poison on the serrated blades. Not a perfect coating, but that would have to do.

Holding both daggers in his right hand, he made a quick mental inventory of the vials of volatile, poisonous or otherwise hazardous substances in his belt pouch and reached for the third one on the left. The hammering footsteps were almost on him now.

_Concentrated vitriol… Let's see how you like this. _

A glimpse of tattered brown robes and a pale, bloated face with impossibly bright eyes, and the small glass vial shattered on its target, the charging abomination bellowing as its head was engulfed in thick, white vapor, _not stopping_. Before Zevran could ready his daggers, a chubby hand as heavy as a bucket of stones slammed him headfirst into the stone wall.

* * *

The Archdemon's scaly hide was so riddled with arrows and broken spear shafts that it seemed to have grown a shaggy coat of fur. Most wounds were shallow; some however ran deep, and dark rivulets trickled along the beast's spiny flanks. In Nyx's mind-eyes, the tainted dragon's aura had dwindled from a glorious light storm filling the skies, to a dull, flickering whirlpool that grew weaker by the second.

Deliverance, or damnation, would come soon.

As though it shared in her grim thoughts, the tainted dragon stumbled on trembling legs and fell prone on the stone floor, its roar now sounding more like a cry for help. Hissing undead rushed the fallen beast, and the great jaws snapped shut several times, reducing the attackers to a gory pulp that would never be animated again. But every snap of the jagged fangs seemed to further weaken the dragon, and soon it could only brush its assailants aside with vague, weak movements of its head and torn wings.

Then even those stopped and the great, spiny head slowly came to rest on the ground. A strange calm fell on the battlefield, as the dead and the living waited for the final act of the Blight to unfurl.

The clang of armored boots on the ground and Loghain entered Nyx's field of vision, pausing ever so briefly to take in the scene; the shambling undead, the immobile sorceress, the dying dragon. Nyx saw unbending resolve build in him as he raised his sword and prepared to end it all. Cold resolve built in her as she recognized her old foe, and she briefly wrestled for control with Fen'Harel, calling forth mental images of those few, cherished days with the bard. The Dread God yielded, just a little too easily, His dark flames still coiled around her, waiting for an opening to smother her last defenses.

"_Stop!"_

Loghain was swept off his feet by her burst of power and landed hard on his back, his head hitting the pavement with a pleasant crack, his heavy sword escaping his grip and coming to float in the air between him and the sorceress. A short distance behind Loghain, the Sten crossed his arms on his massive chest and nodded his approval.

The floating sword glowed red, then an intense white as Nyx poured magic into the blade, preparing to hurl all her grief and anger in a final, cleansing blow. She wondered if there would be dreams, later.

Then the impossible happened.

A gentle touch on her shoulder and _her_ scent enveloped the sorceress, bringing back memories so intense that it hurt to contemplate them. She knew that it was but a dream but she turned to greet the vision, drowning in the scent, the sight, the absolute perfection of the moment. The incandescent sword clanged on the floor as she reached for the apparition's face, the skin warm, soft and so _real_…

"Lel?" Nyx blurted, the little wheels in her head spinning furiously to reconcile the bard's reality with _everything_. Shit. Oh shit… Was Loghain still alive? Maker makin' muffins please please let the bastard be _alive_…

Leliana spoke, fast; she looked very worried for someone just back from the dead.

"Nyx, you must listen, pay attention baby _please_, there is a…"

_Thud._

Nyx's eyes closed reflexively as something sprayed on her face; when she opened them she found herself staring stupidly at the arrowhead protruding from Leliana's neck.

* * *

"Lord Fen'Harel, please receive your betrothed."

The high-pitched wail came impossibly loud and clear through Sin's lipless mouth and acid-eaten teeth. Slowly, he lowered the blond elf's bow. Sin's role in the god's play was over; maybe, he thought confusedly, the Dread God would grant him oblivion. Something moved behind him and he turned to look at the newcomer.

With a faint hiss of steel sliding between vertebrae, Zevran's blades cut clean through the abomination's neck. The elf was already running towards the bard's crumpling figure when Sin's head hit the ground, silver tears splashing on the stone pavement.

* * *

_Excerpts from Boreas' journal, circa 450 TE. *_

"…_The idea was elegant in its simplicity, yet the execution proved delicate, and I ruined a number of good slaves while perfecting it. But truly, what are gold and riches worth without the time to enjoy those gifts of the Dragons? Nothing, that is what, and so are my detractors silenced."_

"…_Creating the bond is trivial; any young gentleman fresh from the Gymnasium knows how to restore his spent forces with the good life of his slaves, and in the essence my Blood Ruby is no different. Making the bond permanent, however, that is truly the work of a Master."_

"…_The subtlety lies in the mastery of Time. Act too early and the bond will simply dissolve. Act too late… Well, Death is Death. To be reborn, one must stand on the very brink of Death, and come back swiftly. Three heartbeats from the Plunge is appropriate."_

"… _And here I stand, an Immortal among men. I have to see to it that Andronius comes to no harm; my beloved son, my very life."_

"_I sometimes wonder if the reverse operation could be attempted: the caster himself pouring his Essence into a host, and the host being thus supported. Idle fancies, I suppose: only a fool would cripple himself so."  
_

* * *

Nyx tastes Leliana's blood on her lips and time slows to a trickle; she reaches for the bard's limp body just as it starts its fall into death, and she sees the light recede from the blue eyes. The wound is lethal and beyond any healer's skill.

This is what the Dread God has wanted all along, the final act of a ritual she doesn't comprehend. The thought should make her mad, stoke the fires of her rage to engulf _everything_, but it doesn't. And in this, perhaps, Fen'Harel has miscalculated. Nyx's grief is intolerably still and crystal clear, and the god's dark flames drown like a torch thrown into deep water.

She looks into the bard's dying eyes and she thinks of that perfect moment, on the edge of the Brecilian Forest, when she let her magic flow through Leliana's body and when, for a split second, they were _one_.

And she knows that she can do it again.

Through the red mist of blood magic she can hear the waning drumbeat of the bard's heart, and she waits, Leliana's body limp in her arms, until she feels that there are only three beats left in the failing organ.

* * *

_Three._

Nyx rips the arrow out of Leliana's neck, the wooden shaft grating against vertebrae.

Blood gushes from the severed arteries, and she encourages it, forcing the bard's essence out of her body, cradling it in her mind's hands like a living, shimmering red gem.

_Two._

The bard's heart struggles to squeeze what little is left of her blood through her cooling veins. Nyx feels a massive power ripple as Fen'Harel sunders the Veil to receive the sacrificed soul; for a split second she imagines a titanic maw opening into the Beyond, and she almost cowers in fear. But she will not let him claim Leliana.

Nyx stabs her own hip with the arrow and extracts as much of her own essence as she dares. This stage is tricky; Boreas would bleed his donor heavily, but she can only lose so much blood before she blacks out.

Her essence mingles with Leliana's and the gem glows incredibly bright as she pours power into their combined blood, willing it to become one. The ritual will bind them for life; she would have it no other way.

_One._

She feels Leliana's heart give out and there is no time left; Nyx forces the radiant, liquid ruby through the jagged wound in the bard's neck, into the severed veins, her consciousness racing through the blood vessels like a demented nug in a tunnel, racing to beat the soul's bid to escape its earthly prison.

* * *

_One._

_

* * *

_

_Two._

_Three, four, five, six, seven…_

Nyx feels the sudden drag on her life force as Leliana's wounds close and her heart starts beating strong and steady; the bard's body feels terribly heavy and she stumbles to lay her on the ground as gently as possible. She kneels there for a few seconds, gasping for air, trying to overcome the nauseating weakness. The _pull_ is so much stronger than she imagined.

The sound of light feet on the stone paving and Zevran kneels before her, his attention entirely focused on the fallen bard. She feels a pang of bitter jealousy as he reaches for Leliana's neck and checks her pulse, and for a second she regrets sparing his life. Then she reminds herself that Leliana will need all the help she can get, and she turns her mind to the more pressing matter at hand.

The Archdemon.

The beast is not moving yet, but Nyx can feel it draw power from the Beyond as it races to heal its wounds. Fen'Harel's undead elves lie inanimate on the pavement; Redcliffe's knights surround Loghain, apparently trying to revive him.

This, of course, can only mean that the old bastard still lives, she reflects with a little wry grin. At least she has taken _one_ good decision in her life, when she agreed to spare him.

It would be refreshing to believe that what she is about to do is justice for Loghain's treason, retribution for the fallen Wardens, but she knows better. This is mere expediency.

_Whatever it takes_.

Her magic feels weak and oddly stunted as she draws blood from the wound in her hip, but the target's unconsciousness makes things much easier. Loghain rises to his feet, his gaze distant and dreamy like an opium eater's; he snatches a bewildered knight's sword and runs towards the Archdemon's immobile body.

The beast's eyes snap open and the huge, horned head turns with horrible speed to catch and maul its enemy.

_Oh no you don't! _

On this thought Nyx sends the living puppet's arm hurling through the air, the heavy sword shearing through scales, bone and brains.

There is a flash of incredibly bright light, and just before she falls into an abyss of darkness, she wonders if the trick did work after all.

* * *

_* Cf. chap. 13 for a quick reminder of who the heck this Boreas guy is. _


	21. Chapter 21: Full circle

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Full circle**

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related lore/ characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

Nyx awoke to the alien, nauseating feeling of her life being drained away from her, and fought a wave of panic at the idea that the feeling would be part of her forever.

_You know why you did it_, she thought to herself, clenching her teeth. _You knew the alternative. You can live with this. _She rolled on her side in the soft, warm bed and clutched her knees, waiting for the nausea to dissipate, which it did, partly.

She inhaled deeply, trying to make sense of her surroundings, with little success. The subtle signals of the night air were covered in a filthy layer of smoke and less pleasant things. She reckoned that it would take months, perhaps years for Denerim to shake off the smell of fire and death.

Her nose did catch a whiff of mabari, however, and she whistled softly. A happy whine and a strangely arrhythmic click of paws later, she felt a hot, putrid breath on her face and groaned a warning.

"No licking!"

Runt whined gently and pushed his massive head against her hand; she scratched the softer fur behind his ear, wondering at the odds of them being reunited after what was probably the greatest battle of their time. She propped herself up on the bed, the familiar flash of pain in her left hand informing her that she was decidedly not dreaming. Runt hopped and laid his forepaw on the bed, and she saw that he, too, had not escaped the Blight unscathed. The hound's right paw was missing, a neat, surgical bandage hiding the stump just below the elbow. She held up her own wizened hand with a bitter smile.

"Guess now we really are a well-assorted couple, hey Runt?"

The mabari whined his agreement and she gave the thick muscles by his jaw a vigorous massage while she examined the room, a large, well-furnished affair with walls of artfully cut stone, as luxurious as the functional Fereldan mindset would ever allow. She was probably in one of a handful of luxury estates that still stood in the ruined city. There was a lit candle by her bedside, and in the flickering light she saw a wide area on the floor where darker lines ran between the stone slabs; it would take a lot of work to erase the traces of the Denerim massacre.

Nyx shuddered and reached for her Dalish armor, stacked neatly on a nearby chair, the leather cleaned by grateful hands. She put the armor on, enjoying the feeling of supple skin on hers, Leliana's gift. She wondered if they would let her wear it, later. Probably not; the thought saddened her.

Taking a deep breath, she started to scan the palace with her mind's eye; her vision was strangely blurred and deformed, as though she now saw the Veil through dirty glass, or very tired eyes. Maybe that was how the weaker mages saw the world.

_I am one of them now.._.

Nyx bit her lip, trying to stifle her panic before it made her scream and rouse the whole sodding palace. Images flashed through her mind: birds with broken wings, crippled veterans; caged, mangy wolves.

Runt's nose pressed on her hand, cool and wet, and she knelt by the dog, pressing her forehead against his, letting his warmth and coarse, heartening scent soothe the fear and bitterness. After what felt like an eternity, she went back to searching the Veil, her mind groping around like a blind man.

A few healers were busy in the vicinity, their magic forming faint ripples on the surface of the Beyond; very close in the silent building she found what she was looking for, a soft, warm shimmer that was as much her own as it was Leliana's.

Nyx's mind carefully reached for the sleeping bard, feelings of peace and acceptance radiating from her lover's light-form when she touched her. Leliana would probably sleep for another day or two, befuddling her healers as her body slowly adapted to the changes the sorceress had wrought. Nyx lingered for a while, smiling, before she finally called her consciousness back to her body and walked to the door. She had to leave Runt inside; she didn't want his hopping around to attract attention and complicate her departure. Before she left, she gave the mabari a short hug, feeling her resolve melt in his warm, rough fur.

A look at the empty hallway, and she trod lightly along silent corridors, looking for an exit in what appeared to be a labyrinth of halls and bedrooms. Apart from the Tower of magi she had never been in a building so big. In the end she just gave up on finding a proper exit and crossed through a grand bedroom, the furniture here smashed and smeared with dried blood, and paused on the balcony, taking in the sight of the devastated Palace gardens with the great, festering heap of darkspawn corpses waiting to be carted out of town and burned. It was no wonder that the rooms on this side of the Palace were left empty; the stench almost made her eyes water.

A light touch on her shoulder and she spun with lightning speed, her blade almost coming out of its scabbard before Zevran's hand caught her wrist. His grip was gentle, but the light in his eyes was not, and he did not release her when she let go of the sword hilt.

"So, I take it you are leaving?" The assassin's murmur was as pleasant and controlled as ever, his expression affable, but she could feel his anger all the same, conveyed in the subtle tension of his muscles, the way his ears cocked back ever so slightly.

"What if I am?" she whispered, her voice a low, threatening hiss, "What is it to you, Zev? Do I owe _you_ an explanation?"

"To me, no. Perhaps some other person?"

Nyx could have sworn that she heard contempt in his voice. Of all men, the failed assassin believed _he_ could pass judgment on her. The thought was amusing; what infuriated her was his reason for doing so. Jealousy ran deep in her, and the thought that Zevran may well enjoy what she had sacrificed so much to preserve was maddening. Perhaps she should remedy this; weakened though she was, she could still make short work or a Crow or two, and this particular Crow owed her a life.

A subtle burn in her veins warned her of the coming of the dark flames and she focused on Leliana's faint Fade imprint, blocking out the anger. The flames receded almost immediately, as though they shared in her magic's ruin; she felt a sudden pang of hope, examined it, and discarded it. She would not trade her resolution for wishful thinking.

Nyx leaned forward, bringing her face an inch from the assassin's, taking in his scent; leather, spices and warm oak wood under the sun.

"Look me in the eye, my Antivan snake, and tell me this is not what you wish. Tell me you will not be happy to fill in my shoes when I am gone."

"I… this is a low blow, my friend." But she could see the idea working its way through his mind, and his grip loosened on her wrist. She pushed him away gently and he let go, looking sad and confused.

"Why?"

"Because I am dangerous. That's reason enough for you. Just tell Leliana..." A pause, the lump in her throat strangling her; this was harder than she had thought. "Tell her that I held my promise, will you? That I didn't let her come to harm."

Nyx turned to the moon-drenched gardens with their torched trees and still ponds, then remembered something and shot Zevran a last look above her shoulder, a spark of her old arrogance dancing in her silver eyes.

"And be sure Anora makes good on _her_ promise of a substantial boon. Tell the bitch that I will be back for her if she doesn't. You can work out the details with Leliana."

Working the transformation felt incredibly tiring, and when she was done she rested on the balcony's tiled floor for a few minutes, brown and grey feathers shivering under Zevran's gaze. Then she stirred, and in a few beats of silken wings she had left the brooding assassin far behind.

The flight was extenuating. She had never flown late at night, and now she understood why falcons kept to the daylight: without the sun's blessing, the warm drafts which allowed her to ascend and maintain her altitude effortlessly were all but gone, and she had to rely on muscle power only.

To make things worse, it appeared that the further she was from Leliana, the stronger the drain from the bond. Soon it became evident that she would never reach her destination before dawn, as she had to pause every now and then, perched on tree tops or barn roofs. Once a long-eared owl mistook her for some exotic brand of poultry, and she narrowly escaped the silent talons, shrieking in dismay as she dashed away. After facing an Archdemon, the idea of ending her life in the stomach of a hungry owl was rather vexing.

Morning found her asleep on the highest tower of a ruined castle, and it took her a while to figure out her position. Soaring high on air currents, she saw the distant flicker of sunlight on Lake Calenhad and headed for that direction. It was a clear day; Ferelden under her wings was a vision of glory, and she burned it all in her memory, the warmth of the morning sun, the wind rustling in her soft feathers, and the immensity of the world.

She circled the Tower for a long time before she finally perched on Irving's window sill, rousing the old geezer from his afternoon nap with a few dry raps of her hooked beak on the stained glass.

* * *

Leliana dreams of the grassy hollow by the Brecilian forest. Nyx lies by her side, the sunlight shining impossibly white on her naked skin, blue veins showing faintly on her neck and tiny breasts, her raven hair long again and flowing like a river of jet. In her dream she knows that Nyx has to leave for some mysterious journey, and she tries to delay the moment by kissing and drawing her into more love games, striving to rouse her lover's passion with all the deliberate skill of a bard. Nyx returns her kiss with infinite tenderness, only to push her away gently, shaking her head.

Nyx stands up and a great cold comes upon Leliana, chilling her to the bone; she looks for her clothes, but they are nowhere to be found. The grass and the brook are gone, too; the bedrolls are now laid on what appears to be an infinite expanse of dark ice. Nyx' gaze pierces her, and Leliana hears the elf's voice even though the pale, smiling lips do not move.

"This is my choice."

The ice opens under the sorceress' bare feet, and she disappears without a sound.

Leliana awakes in a princely suite to find Runt by her bedside; she already knows that Nyx is gone.

* * *

Nyx lies very straight and still in the dormitory she shares with the other Tranquil. It is well past time to sleep, but her body has yet to acknowledge the Tower's rules and she does not feel sleepy. Her silver eyes, now cold and listless, are fixed on the decadent Tevinter ceiling with its fornicating imps; there are one hundred seventy-nine imps and twenty-six dragons in her field of vision.

She does not hate them any more. The hatred, along with all fear and her love for the bard, is gone for good.

She remembers clearly how she feared and doubted until the end, how she trembled even as she asked Irving to let her undergo the Ritual. Now she is at peace, and deeply satisfied with her decision. It was, quite simply, the only logical choice. With her connection to the Fade extinguished, Fen'Harel can rage until the Grey Forest crumbles under His paws, He will never get to her.

_Whatever it takes._ To defeat the Blight, to foil destiny, to save the only being that ever mattered.

Nyx has won. He will never, never have Leliana.

She still feels the bond, and she knows that it will be with her until the end of her days. It fills her with the quiet satisfaction of a work well done. She believes it possible that in the years they have left to live, before the taint finally kills them, the bard will find happiness, although she seriously doubts it will have anything to do with Zevran.

Happiness is a worthy pursuit, isn't it?

And being Tranquil is not so bad after all.

She still has her memories.

* * *

_Dabbler's notes:_

_Well it's been quite a ride, but this story has come to an end. Well… kind of. A sequel is coming, but might stay in the works for a little time. Stay tuned for the upcoming trailer!  
_

_Big thanks to all readers/ faves/ alerts; huge thanks to all those of you who took the time to R special thanks to Snafu1000, Lehni, Fellow Sufferer for continued support, & much appreciated reviews. I strongly recommend checking out Snafu1000 and Lehni's fics for some really good reading._


	22. Epilogue: Urthemiel's fate

Dragon Age Origins: Pawn of the Wolf

**Epilogue**

**Urthemiel's fate**

* * *

Foreword: Dragon Age, Leliana and all related characters belong to Bioware - Thanks guys for an awesome game. Me? I simply claim paternity to Nyx. I am having fun writing this. Feedback welcome!

* * *

Slowly, the pain and the darkness receded and he became aware of its surroundings. He lay on its side on a sandy expanse, in what appeared to be a deep hollow between steep hills; on the distant ridges of the hills, he could faintly make out the gnarled silhouettes of dead trees. The sand under him was as cold as ice, as though the sun never rose to warm this forlorn place, and he felt chilled to the bone. He tried to move, but his body was tethered in place by some unknown, unthinkable charm.

A thought-laugh, low and cackling, echoed through the dry dell; he turned his consciousness towards the source of the thought, and for the first time in eons, recoiled in fear and disgust. The thing that laughed face-first in the dust was but a hollowed, twisted shadow of its former glory, a husk possessed of only a faint flicker of consciousness; yet for all its wretchedness and palpable insanity, it was undoubtedly a _god_.

He felt the Presence rise, as though summoned by his fear; Its titanic mass filled the starless sky with a deeper darkness. But he was no mere mortal lost in dreams; he could see through the veils of shadow, fur and metal, down to the devouring void that was Fen'Harel's essence.

The void spoke; its thought-voice mocking and rumbling with hunger.

_Urthemiel._

Then the great steel jaws opened, and the screams of the Old God sent the legions of dreamers scrambling from the Fade, all the way through the gates of sleep, back to sweat-drenched, trembling bodies.

It had begun.

* * *

A.N., a.k.a. shameless self-promotion:

Nyx and Leliana will write a legend of their own as they face the consequences of their defiance in the sequel to Pawn of the Wolf:

**Dragon Age: Wars of the Wolf**

_(Cue heavy metal and big CG explosions)_

… All right, so this _does_ sound a bit pompous, but it's meant to be a trailer, look up there, I even have CG effects and lots of big explosions… Oh, all right, please keep reading?


End file.
